


Wandering Lost

by dugindeep (hotsauce)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Big City Jensen, M/M, Slice of Life, Small Town Jared, Small Towns, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 09:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/pseuds/dugindeep
Summary: Hired by an eccentric billionaire, Jensen is tasked with transporting a '55 Ford F-100 from California to New York. After the car breaks down, he's stuck in the middle of Nebraska and spends a week getting to know a whole mix of oddballs he'd never spend a minute with back in NYC. "Not all who wander are lost," but Jensen's a little of both as he warms up to the townspeople and the local handyman, who is equal parts peculiar and charming. And maybe he even finds himself along the way.Written for 2017SPN_J2_BigBangView Art Post





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To my artist thruterryseyes: Thank you so much for all of your hard work!! So many pieces make me feel so much joy, for the moments you selected, the lines of dialogue you added, or the particular pictures to illustrate my story. Thank you so much for picking me! And for putting up with all of my lateness throughout the last month. You're very kind and patient :)
> 
> To one of my favorite people in the entire universe, [kelleigh](http://kelleigh.livejournal.com). There aren't enough thank yous in the world for the time you committed to helping me whip this into shape. And also thank you SO MUCH for your constructive criticism that made this story so much stronger than what I had originally pulled together. I value the input and support more than you will ever know. 110% stellar beta from top to bottom, and I continue to love you every day for being my friend and support <3333

DAY ONE 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jensen grits between his teeth as the ’55 Ford F-100 stutters to a stop.

He stumbles out of the cab of the truck. Dust flies up in his face, dirtying up his jeans when he spins around to scowl at the ancient hunk of metal that chose this precise moment to roll up on the shoulder of the road and die. 

_She’s a classic, Jen. A real beaut._

He can hear ol’ Jim Beaver’s voice echoing in his head, along with his own petulant, _It’s Jen **sen**_ in reply. 

The old grump back home insisted Jensen handle her with care: cautious with the brakes, diligent with the oil levels, and watchful of the gas needle going too low. 

_Only the best for my gal_ , Beaver said. _She’s one of a kind_ , he had insisted, just before explaining that the F-100 is the preferred make of classic truck for old fogey collectors like him. 

Jensen wanted to point out that it didn’t make her that special when other septuagenarians like him were stocking up on them. 

Now with his hands up on his head, fingers threaded together, and his shoulders shucked up high with aggravation, Jensen stares at the ugly mint monster in disbelief.

Beaver had corrected that she was Neptune Green. _Because she’s outta this world._

Jensen likens it to puke, a feeling he has right now as he wonders how the hell he’s going to get her up and running again. 

There are a lot of things Jensen considers himself … smart and motivated among them. But also unlucky and underpaid. He’s spent the last 15 years trying to carve out a life in New York City, rushing through the bustle to make enough to afford something more than a studio apartment now that his friends have either moved on (to the suburbs) or up (to Wall Street), and left him without roommates. 

With a barely adequate paycheck at a yet to be discovered photo studio, Jensen pieces together enough bills to get through each month by running errands just like this one (and often relying on favors that are paid in food, booze, and housewares to keep his home just barely stocked). He thought Beaver would be a big payday to manage a tall stack of bills, ones that has him drowning in debt. 

Years ago, just after high school, Jensen had escaped Central Texas to slip into a busier world. He didn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb in an empty landscape like this. Standing out in the open is the kind of vulnerability he tries to avoid. Living in New York city gives him that anonymity he craves. Also provides him access to any and every solution possible when down on his luck. Like phones, cell service, taxis, and thousands of places get relief from the hot sun and stifling humidity.

Yet, here he is in the middle of Nowhere, Kansas, with dusk flaring beyond the western horizon. He’s stuck on a beaten down dirt road with nothing but plains and worn out farms from one horizon to the other. There aren’t even corn stalks to prove the state really is full of mighty Huskers.

“Really ruining your reputation here,” Jensen mumbles as he looks in every direction for salvation. 

He reaches back into the truck, stretching across the bench seat to retrieve his cell phone from wherever it landed in his off-road skid. It’s tucked into the sliver of space between the seat cushion and the side door, and he fights to get his fingers around the corner of the iPhone while his wrist is squeezed in the tight space. His hand cramps up and he collapses on the seat empty handed, cheek pressed against sun-warm leather, eyes staring at the dashboard. 

“I hate driving,” he whines to himself. “So much.” There’s a reason he loves NYC, and it’s mostly due to its massive transit systems. 

Finally, he gets the idea to get out of the car, walk around the side, and open the passenger door to get his phone. Easy peasy, he grabs it from where it’s wedged near the foot well, sends a tiny prayer up to the faded blue sky, and unlocks the phone with his thumbprint.

Then he stares at the top left of the screen where it sadly proclaims NO SERVICE.

Like all the sad sacks in movies and TV, Jensen lifts the phone up, points it to the puffy white clouds that could look gentle and beautiful any day on which he isn’t stranded in the middle of nowhere. 

He aims it towards the setting sun, like that’ll do any good, and is blinded in process of staring at the yellow rays. Blinking away from the silvery spots in his eyes, he even tries pointing the phone to the ground. 

“You’re an idiot,” he mumbles.

His shoulders slump and he tips his head back as he curses his circumstance. The phone hasn’t worked for the last hour Jensen spent speeding down this two-lane state road. Back on the interstate, a massive construction crew had two of four lanes shut down and an overturned freight truck had spilled tons upon tons of rice across the road, both of which bottlenecked what little blacktop was left to use.

That’s how he ended up on these side roads with little in the way of signage. His phone had helped him here and there before cell service completely abandoned him, and he decided to just keep heading east … or what he thought was east, anyway. At this point, he’s not too sure which direction is which. He can only tell where he came from based on the car’s position.

He kicks a tire, which, with his luck, gives him a painfully stubbed toe. “Owwwwwww.”

As he leans down to toggle the front of his shoe, he hears it. A faint rumble back over the hill he’d driven over just before careening down onto this shoulder. It grows louder—meaner, really—as seconds float by until Jensen can spy a large vehicle heading down the hill. 

Nearing him, he can now see that the hefty, misshapen back end is actually towing equipment with an old sedan hitched up. Jensen thinks he just might be saved. 

With a grateful sigh, he rounds the F-100 and leans against the driver’s side door, waving miserably when the tow truck passes him. 

A mass of dirt clouds his view, and Jensen groans. 

The truck skids a way down, then Jensen jumps when the back lights flip to white as the truck reverses. Joy breaks inside as the truck crawls back to him. 

In the driver’s seat is a big guy with scruff overgrowing his jaw and messy, sweaty hair barely held with a backwards trucker hat. He’s taller than he is wide, that’s for sure, and if Jensen weren’t in this situation, he might take a few moments to consider the full package behind the wheel. 

There’s plenty more to worry about at the moment as Jensen hears something knock and clutter from behind him. That damned F-100 is just mocking him now.

“Car troubles?” the driver asks with a drawl. 

Jensen blinks. “What makes you think that?” 

“Well, you’re the only thing I’ve seen for nearly a hundred miles.” After a moment, he smiles, broad and bright. A cruel juxtaposition to the filth covering the outside of his truck and painting the whole dusty landscape around them. “And you ain’t in your car, and your car ain’t moving.” Then he pops a toothpick into the corner of his mouth and chews broadly.

 _Really completes the look_ , Jensen thinks as he rolls his eyes at the scene.

“You need some help?”

“Yeah, I do.” Jensen does his best to not add _you moron_. The man’s lopsided smile does little to differentiate between his amusement at Jensen’s plight and blissful ignorance. “Is there a gas station or store nearby?”

“What kinda shop you looking for?”

Jensen closes his eyes, lifts his face towards the sky, and considers prayer. God hasn’t done much for him in the first 35 years, but maybe he’ll be kind in the next 35 seconds. 

“I can get ya where you need to go,” the guy insists, “but ya gotta tell me where to.”

“Any mechanics within a reasonable distance?”

He makes a sucking noise as he thinks, then chews forcefully on his toothpick. 

Jensen continues to stare, cursing God and all other deities that choose to ignore him. 

“What do you consider reasonable?”

“I’m guessing that’s a no?”

“You’d guess right.”

“How about a radio or somewhere with cell service?” Jensen finds himself crossing his fingers with each question. “I could call someone to come tow it.”

“Ain’t no service ‘round these parts. I’ll get you into town then I can come back for her.”

Sighing, Jensen grips his phone tightly. “Right.”

The guy leans across the bench seat and pops the passenger door open. 

The sloppy, cranky noise makes him wonder if the F-100 is in better shape than this thing. Jensen takes a moment to really evaluate the grime covering at least three-fourths of the truck. He guesses the rest of it could baby blue. Maybe turquoise, which he finds to be an odd color for a piece of machinery like this. 

“Hop on in!” 

Jensen wavers, glancing between the Ford behind him and the man in front of him. “I really shouldn’t leave it out here.”

“Aww, she’ll be okay.”

Jensen sighs at the thought of losing his paycheck if something happens to the F-100.

For another long moment, Jensen looks at the tow truck from the front to the back. There could be questions of security for taking the first available ride so close to when the Ford kicked the bucket, but he doesn’t have much choice at this point.

He looks at his phone: still completely useless. Glances at the tow truck: still a mess of curly cue letters claiming to be a professional business. The ‘J-a-r’ is there, but not much else. Maybe this guy’s a Marine, proclaiming Jarhead or something in his business name. 

“You’ll be okay, too,” the man insists. 

“Okay, okay, fine,” Jensen mutters quickly as he grabs his duffel from the Ford. He jumps into the tow truck and slams the door before he can change his mind. 

They rumble down the road for a long run of quiet. Not much changes around them: the land’s flat and dusty, reaching far beyond sight without any mile markers or landmarks. 

Gives him too much time to think. His mind trails off, imagining the argument he’ll have with Beaver when he tells him the truck’s delivery is delayed. Can’t admit what really happened—going the back roads, speeding, possibly ignoring the oil levels if he really thinks about it. Beaver told him to treat her like his own. If only Jensen had ever owned a car worth more than its trouble, he could have heeded the warning. 

“The name’s Jared.”

Jensen blinks out of his reverie.

The guy points at himself and smirks. “Jared. Me.”

“Like the name on the side of the truck,” Jensen puts together.

“Yeah. She’s mine.”

“She?” Jensen parrots, dreading that he’s found himself a young imitation of Beaver, an oddball with a penchant for aging rust buckets that fulfill any feminine dream they could have. 

Jared speeds down the road even faster than Jensen attempted. The truck makes many of the same clanking noises he’d experienced himself. Wind whips through the cab, and Jensen pulls his sunglasses down to shield his eyes from the quickening air and dust particles littering everything. 

“The business,” Jared replies. “Towing and stuff. She’s mine, I guess.” 

“And stuff.” A beat later: “You guess.”

“Yeah. I cover all sorts of stuff around the place.” 

Jensen has no intention of diving into this man’s life, or whatever Podunk town they’re heading for. He’s also doing his best to not think too much about the golden hue Jared’s skin takes on with the sun glistening on those sweat-dabbled arms and face. “Is there lots of stuff to cover?”

Jared nods slowly. “Plenty to keep me busy.”

“You know much about old trucks?” Jensen chances that Jared may be a bit knowledgeable in the department, given he drives one himself. 

Jared looks over and grins. “Well now, if I knew much about old trucks, I would’ve gotten outta mine and helped you back into yours.”

Okay, he has a point, though Jensen’s not about to acknowledge it. 

“How about you?”

He glances over with his eyebrow raised high. “What about me?”

“Anything, really. But you could start with a name.”

“Jensen. My name’s Jensen.” He watches Jared’s face for any response.

There isn’t one beside a smile, a pat of Jared’s giant hand on Jensen’s knee, then a friendly, “We’ll get ya all taken care of, Jen.”

Jensen takes a steadying breath. “It’s Jen _sen_.”

Jared chuckles and flicks the toothpick around with his tongue before tucking it into the far corner of his lips. “Sure it is.”

 

***

 

The truck rattles into town, or what little there is of it. On either side of the two-lane road are ranch homes in varying degrees of upkeep. Some are bright and beautiful with flowers that bounce against the painted siding. Others are dusty like the roads Jared took to get here, the front grass littered with lawn decorations Jensen had seen in old catalogues his gramma used to collect. He didn’t know people bought these kinds of things anymore, let alone owned collections this large. Resin flamingos and gnomes, stone angels and turtles, two-dimensional puppies and pigs. Heck, even Santa Claus in swim trunks and sunglasses. 

_Oh God_ , his aunt’s house looked just like this. Tacky decorations kept up all year long, her place was the talk of the town, and folks found it _adorable._ Jensen had long ago forgotten about that. Perhaps on purpose.

On Main Street, Jensen spies a diner boasting the best hash in town. He wonders just how many places cook up fresh breakfast to fight for that title. He also spots a dry cleaner with its front doors wide open and steam floating out, a bank with tall white columns, an ice cream shop with blue and white striped awnings, a tiny grocery named _Ruthie’s_ , and the police department, made obvious with a bright gold star hanging in the window. There’s also the requisite barber shop with its candy cane pole spiraling at the entryway.

Myriad shades of brick fill the streetscape, and perfectly grey sidewalks border the road. A number of fairly sized trees dot the curbs, and strands of lights crisscross from the lamp posts. He imagines this ‘Main Street, USA,’ mirage is lit up at night with faux twinkly stars to complete the perfect picture of Middle America.

At the far end of the main strip sits a retro version of a McDonald’s. The yellow arches are sharply curved, and the restaurant itself barely appears big enough to seat more than a dozen patrons. There isn’t even a drive-thru. Making matters more confusing, the sign proclaims its hours of operation are **12PM-6PM**. 

Adding to the odd vision, an ice cream truck crawls down the street with _The Entertainer_ playing from a tiny speaker planted on the roof. A caricature of a short, furry-bearded, happy-go-lucky, smiling man is painted across the side. The driver leans out of the open doorway with that same dopey smile and Jensen would think he’s seeing twins. 

The whole image changes when a middle-aged woman with closely cropped salt and pepper hair comes barreling out of the nearby ice cream shop and runs after the truck. She’s loud and fired up; the broom she swings around is just as terrifying. 

“I’ve told you before!” she threatens. “You stay off of Main Street! This is my territory!” 

Jensen grew up in a small town like this one, spent plenty of time driving through Texas. Never liked it much, which is why he moved to the biggest city in the country. Over eight million people, and just as many different attitudes painting the town with their own brush. He rather enjoys being one of many, lost in the crowd, ambling forward like everyone else, even when moving to their own rhythm. 

Here, everything is out in the open, easy to be seen, as if under a microscope, when not hidden among the throngs of millions. 

This town is _so cliché_. He knows that towns like this are a dime a dozen, but they’re not usually as … lively … as this place.

The woman continues her verbal attacks while chasing after the truck, which apparently lacks any pick-up and stays at the same slow pace. The driver dares to hang out of the side of the truck and shake his fist at her. “This is a free society!” he yells. “A little fair competition is healthy for everyone!”

“I’ll shove your fair competition so far up your ass …”

Jensen can no longer hear much of the conversation as Jared steers the truck into the open bay doors of a large garage. He hops out and waves for Jensen to follow him through the cluttered garage, littered with rusted car parts and tools all over the floor and on tables, and finally through a door to the main office area. 

“Oh, thank God,” Jensen gushes as he hurries to the water fountain in the corner of the tiny storefront. He gulps down as much coolness as he can until he has to stop to catch his breath. That’s when he finds Jared watching him with narrowed eyes and a peculiar smile. “What?”

“Oh nothing.” Jared’s smile slips to one side. “Just enjoying the show.”

Jensen looks to the side, a little over his shoulder, then stands up straight as he realizes Jared’s been checking out his ass while there are more important matters before them. 

“So you think you can check it out?” Jensen asks with a careful smile.

“Check what out?”

He stares for a moment. Surely Jared isn’t _that_ dumb. “The truck?”

“Ain’t up to me. That’d be Rich’s department.”

Jensen hadn’t expected to find anyone aside from Jared working here. The garage is pretty cramped already. “Who’s Rich?”

“The mechanic,” he replies rather plainly. Maybe he _is_ that dumb.

“Are you … you’re not?”

“No sir.” Jared fakes a hat tip. “Just your dutiful driver.”

Later, Jensen will wonder why he bothered to go down this route. For now, he’s dedicated to clarifying the situation. “You drive a tow truck?”

Jared nods solemnly. “Yes sir.”

“And you work in a garage.”

“On occasion.”

Jensen pauses dramatically before stating, “But you’re not a mechanic.”

Jared’s grin, broad and white, is toothpaste-commercial perfect. Jensen reassures himself it’s not a handsome look. “I’m a lot of things around this place, but I wouldn’t put it on my business cards.”

“I’d hate to see what _is_ on your business card.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” Jensen sighs. He tests his phone again and finds it’s no better than when he was first stuck on the side of the road. Still no service, and now the phone is losing power, the little battery icon red and threatening. Jensen waves his phone in the air. “How about some service and a charger?”

Jared actually takes the time to glance around, yet shakes his head. “Nah, not much fancy stuff around here.”

“No service in town?”

“It’s pretty spotty in a place like this.”

“Okay,” Jensen sighs again. Reminding himself of another great benefit to living in the big city. “How about a regular phone?”

“That’s down.”

Jensen seeks out another door. There’s only the one they came through beside a window that lets him see where the real garage operations happen. “Down where?”

“Just down. Like, it don’t work.”

Sighing for what feels like the fortieth time in the last two hours, Jensen mutters, “Of course.”

“There’s a pay phone down around the corner.”

Jensen huffs and motions with his cell. “Not like I know anyone’s numbers. Everything’s stored in here these days.”

Jared has a surprisingly authentic frown. “That’s a bummer.”

“Like this day couldn’t get any worse,” Jensen complains, trying his best to ignore the way Jared is watching him with something akin to compassion and worry. “All I wanted was to get the truck fixed up, and it’s still stuck out on that road.”

“You know,” Jared says with an oddly wise tone, “My Uncle Mick used to say, ‘you can’t always get what you want.’”

He hears the beat in his head and stares. “Wait – ”

“’But if you try sometimes, you get what you need.’”

“That’s a …” Jensen blinks at the absurdity of the moment. “It’s a song.”

Jared shrugs. “My uncle is quite the songwriter.”

Now his eyes widen. “Your uncle is … ” 

“My uncle’s name is Mick.”

He can’t even fathom that this dope’s uncle is really _Mick Jagger_. Instead, he shifts back to what Jared said earlier. “Where’s that pay phone?”

With a vague motion outside: “Down the way, around from Bri’s.”

“Where does Bri live?”

Jared makes a face. “Well, she lives out on Bucks Road. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

Jensen drops his shoulders. “Then why did you mention Bri’s?”

“It’s her diner,” Jared replies. Jensen hears a well-purposed _duh_ in there. “Down around the corner to the left.”

Finally, Jensen feels his luck turning and leaves without another word. It all seems especially fruitful when the sun shines on his tired face as he jogs down the block, avoids a few old ladies, teens spilling out of the ice cream shop, and a family of six making their way to the diner at the end. 

Every single one of them stops to stare, and he hears muttering about his presence. They’re concerned about the stranger, saying he’s rude given his rush to run past them. 

No matter, he’s found faith in the phone booth near the alley. A beacon drawing him closer, no matter how foreign it feels in this day and age, where cell phones rule the world. The world beyond this town, obviously. 

Of course, it’s not that easy, and by now his phone is on two percent battery. He hurries to bring up his contacts, but the phone lags long enough to waste what juice is left. Jensen is left staring at the black screen of his iPhone, now completely dead and useless in his hand. He remembers the external battery buried deep in his front pocket, along with the USB cable. Yet when he hooks it all up, there’s only enough juice to flash the tiny orange light on the battery. Nothing happens with his phone.

He has a mess of change in his pocket from multiple breaks at gas station mini marts and rest stop vending machines. Thankfully, there’re enough quarters get the payphone to work. He grimaces at the grunge mucking up the mouth piece, makes sure to keep it a safe distance from his mouth. 

Adding to the long list of unfortunate moments for today, it takes him three tries and nearly three dollars in dimes and quarters to get Jason’s number right. Still, he’s grateful to hear his friend’s confused voice on the other end. 

“Hello?”

He breathes deep. “Jason, thank God.”

“Who is this?”

“Jensen!”

Over a long pause, Jensen imagines his best friend pulling the cell phone away from his face to stare at the incoming number. 

“Jensen?”

“Yeah!” He laughs through the bliss of finally getting something done right today. “Oh thank God you answered.”

“Were you expecting someone else?”

Jensen pinches his nose through the frustration of how this day has gone. _Not well_ doesn’t begin to describe it. “I dialed a few wrong numbers, including an old man who just kept yelling even when I insisted it was a wrong number.”

“What is going on?” Suddenly Jason sounds worried, and Jensen is thankful to have his attention. “Are you okay?”

“I am now. Now that you answered.” He leans against the glass wall, twisting his back and groaning when he hears and feels the cracks of stiff, tired bones. “You need to help me.”

“Where are you?”

With another scan of the block around him, Jensen reconsiders his present situation. This place is smaller than Small Town, America. “I’m stuck in Pleasantville.”

“I thought you hated Tobey Maguire.”

“I do … and that’s not the point.”

“Then why are you living out one of his best movies?”

“It’s the only movie worth noting.” Jensen huffs and gets back on track. 

“Donnie Darko was pretty cool,” Jason says idly.

“NOT THE POINT. I need to get out of here. They have two stoplights, a self-serve gas station, and only one McDonald’s. It’s a nightmare.”

“Does it at least serve all day breakfast?”

“It’s not even open for breakfast!”

“Heathens!”

“I know! Which is why I need your help.” He sucks in a deep gulp of air and asks Jason to help track down Beaver’s number. 

“Don’t you have it?”

“Yeah, on my dead phone. And this place doesn’t have cell service … as if that still happens these days.”

There’s a long pause, and Jensen can imagine how shitty Jason’s look would be if they were face to face. He wills himself to not yell all his frustration into the grimy phone receiver. He’s amazed the thing has been working this long. “Jason, please,” he goads, then goes a step further, “And get in touch with my boss? I was in the middle of finalizing next month’s exhibits before I left California.” 

“Jensen. What’re you doing?” 

He can picture Jason’s tight smile; he’s witnessed it many times when trying to manage the hectic mess of his life while his lone friend thinks Jensen has gone crazy. When he runs back and forth between the studio and a dozen other places, earning himself a few extra bucks to make rent every month with every little errand. He’s rather proud that he’s carved out a life in the city, where he can survive every day on his own feet. It’s painful to ask Jason for help, but he figures there’s a first time for everything.

“Yeah, I know,” he concedes.

“Why don’t you just call Beaver and ask him to help you?”

With a sigh, Jensen pinches the bridge of his nose as he admits it all to Jason. “Because the car broke down. And he loves this thing. I can’t tell him what happened.”

“Sure you can,” he insists. “He flew you out there, why can’t he fly you back?”

Jensen’s heart immediately speeds up with the thought of calling the crazy old man. “I can’t tell him the car broke down! That’s the number one thing he said!” He lowers his voice to intone the gravelly seriousness that had been shoved down his throat. “He said ‘ _Jen, anything happens to mah girl and I will hold you personally responsible._ ’”

“Well, yeah, of course he’d be upset, but he wants that car back in one piece. He wouldn’t really do anything. Right?”

“He said personally responsible meant my balls. He threatened my balls, Jay. I rather like my balls.”

“Dude. Stop talking about your balls.” 

Jason doesn’t know how to help him aside from sending a few emails. Jensen’s thankful Jason is at work with connections to the internet to track down work contacts and let them know of Jensen’s delay. He leaves Beaver to Jensen’s own managing, however.

Once he hangs up the phone, Jensen feels a flicker of hope, and he jogs back to the garage to get his things and figure out his next steps. He’ll feel better once he gets his backpack, camera, and other charging supplies back to get his phone up and running.

Only, the shop is empty of both people and the tow truck. Meaning his bag is now gone with Jared, off to wherever. In a flash, he pictures his camera bag buried beneath the few changes of clothes he did bring. It’d been a hard-fought investment suddenly out of his hands. That scares him just as much as Beaver’s threats to his manhood.

“Oh Christ,” Jensen whines, then shoves the door open so he can go out to the street and track down the moron who’s run off with his things. 

Jensen runs his hands over his head, lacing his fingers together and latching onto the back of his neck as he feels anger settle low in his stomach like a deep, dirty pit. 

The day started quite well with two-for-one chocolate donuts at a gas station somewhere just east of Grand Junction, Colorado. He hit the road quite early to roll along I-70 in hopes of making it to Iowa before the sun disappeared. Now it’s nearly dinner time and he can see the last rays slipping beyond the trees. 

His attempts to ride long today, and go faster than he had on the first day of lackluster driving, are completely dashed by this mess. 

“Oh sweetie, you look like you got yourself in a big stew of trouble.”

Jensen spins around to the soft, yet mischievous voice. Then has to look down to the grey-haired woman smiling at him. Her dress is colorful and flowy, like a flower child in the late 1960s, and her hair isn’t far behind with dozens of twisty braids piled high on her head. 

The orange eye shadow and blue mascara doesn’t quite pull it all together; he’s somehow not surprised by the colors. 

“You lookin’ for some help, darlin’?”

Jensen sucks in a long breath of relief. “I am. Looking for Jared, actually.”

She takes Jensen in from head to toe, even making the trail back up with a sly smile. “Is that so?”

“No!” he exclaims before explaining, “Not like that. No, not at all. No, no, no, no …” Ends up laughing over the ridiculous thought of whatever she’s imagining with her impish look. “He picked me up out on Route 92. My truck broke down. And now I can’t find him. He has my bag.”

“Well, honey, it’s near-abouts dinner time, so I don’t think we’ll be seeing Jared for a while now.” She leans in, half covering her mouth to playfully whisper. “That boy’s got a big appetite, ya know?”

Jensen leans back when she pats at his chest, fingers dragging with interest. “No, I don’t know. Sorry.” Then he points at the sign above the garage, _Dingy Dick’s_ , and widens his eyes when he sees the name. “Um, so, Jared, uh, brought me here. Said Richard could help with the truck.”

“Oh, dear, no.” She shakes her head. “Richard’s left us. Just about a week ago.”

Now he furrows his brow, confusion mixing with embarrassment for bringing up someone who is apparently … dead? “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, we really miss him. Such a wonderful man.”

“Then why would …” _Jared mention him?_ Jensen huffs with more annoyance at whatever mess Jared’s gotten him into. Switching gears, he asks, “Do you know how I could get a hold of Jared?”

She smiles sweetly and shakes her head. “Oh, lovely, Jared just always finds us.”

He makes a face. Wonders when he’ll meet someone normal, rational, and helpful around here. He’s really striking out. 

“But in the meantime, you should come home with me, honey.” As she ropes her arm through his, dragging him down the street with surprising strength, Jensen wonders how may endearments she’s set to call him. So far, she’s hit five. “I’ll cook you something nice and warm, fill up that belly for you” – she even pats his stomach and rubs, like any overbearing grandmother – “and put you to bed all nice and sweet for a good night’s sleep.”

He tries to pull away and argue, but then they’re turning a corner and heading right for a two-story brick home with spires reaching up at least another story or two. A small, colorful sign swings gently on chains hanging from the ceiling of the wrap-around porch. 

_Red Sky Inn_

She’s moving at half the speed as when she’d dragged Jensen down the block, now barely making it halfway up the stairs without a major effort. She grips the wooden railing and waves for him. “C’mon now sweetheart. You gonna help me up the stairs and inside or just stand there with your jaw to your knees?”

“What is this?” he asks as he approaches her. Beyond his better judgment, he brings one arm around her back and one to her free hand, guiding her up the last few steps. 

“It’s my inn. We’ll get you some grub and a pillow, and you’ll be all happy and situated for the evening. Then you can look for our darling Jared in the morning.”

It all clicks into place once he’s inside and sees the front host stand, not to mention a sitting room off to the right, a dining room to the left, and a grand staircase leading upstairs. An arrow-shaped sign pointing in that direction proclaims _Rooms 1 & 2_. She runs a bed in breakfast—with only two beds it appears, given the sign—and Jensen considers himself in a bit of a better situation. 

On the desk stands an ornate gold picture frame; in lieu of a portrait is a piece of paper with elegant script declaring the name of the proprietor. “Is this you?” he asks, lacking anything else to say as she takes her time filling out the appropriate lines in her guest book. “Ellen Geer?”

“Mrs. G. to most folks.” She doesn’t look up as she continues writing; apparently, it takes a novel to check him in. “Well, all folks, I suppose. We ain’t got many folks around here, so, yeah, that’s me, and they all call me Mrs. G. And I guess you’re like most folks, so you can call me that, too.” Now she looks up and grins. 

Jensen smiles for her hospitality, continues doing so when she asks him to sign in. Then the moment sours when he thinks about the cost of staying here. He meets her eyes and frowns. “Jared’s got my wallet. In my bag. In his truck.” He changes his tone to plead with her. “In the morning, I can most definitely pay you, once I get my stuff back.”

She tsks and pats his cheek. “Don’t you worry, dear. It’ll all get worked out.”

He’s not sure how she trusts him so naturally, but he thinks it’s the first thing that’s worked out for him today.

 

*** 

 

Mrs. G. rounds up a traditional home-cooked meal of apple-glazed pork chops and garlic potatoes. Even brings out a homemade pie, strawberry rhubarb, and won’t let Jensen leave the table until he’s eaten two large slices. 

It’s so strangely domestic despite the situation, and he’s reminded of meals back home when he was a kid. Visiting his grandparents, having his gramma fuss over him until he finished all his green beans no matter how many terrible faces he made. Only this time, it tastes _fantastic_.

She even walks him to his assigned room with the traditional golden key rattling on a big number tag. 

Well, he helps her up the stairs and down the hall with a hand at her elbow. By now, he’s all warm and full on good cooking and fresh lemonade that he can’t complain when she rattles on the whole time about the inn she’d opened with Mr. G. back in the 70s. Back when they saw mostly tourists, rather than stranded motorists. 

When she opens the door to room number 2, he wants to cringe at the obnoxious amount of cream lace doilies all over, including one that seems to be a giant crocheted quilt covering the four-poster bed in the center of the small bedroom. There’s barely room to walk around the bed, let alone for the two of them to stand inside together. Still, he lets her rattle on about all the amenities she offers: breakfast at seven in the morning, _sharp_ , a half bath in the corner for when he has to _tinkle_ and a warm shower in the bathroom down the hall, coffee and tea breaks at ten in the garden out back, and high noon luncheon in the dining room. 

“Chicken salad sandwiches on Mondays,” she proclaims.

It’s a bit overwhelming now, with his mind finally giving up on trying to manage the stress of the day. He nods through all her instructions, sees her out to the hallway, and waves as she goes back down the stairs at the rate of a turtle. 

Shutting the door, Jensen scans the room on his own, a dark sense of dread taking over.

“Just for one night,” he mumbles. “Just sleep for one night. Surely it’s got to be better than that stinky motel from last night.”

At least he can appreciate the fluff of the pillows piled high against the redwood headboard. So long as he ignores the large painted portrait of Mrs. G. herself framed and hanging above it. 

_Mr. G. said we needed a place to hang all my paintings_ , she’d gushed, _So he bought me this place. And let me tell ya … anytime a man can buy you a house, you plant your roots. No matter how stinky his feet are._

Jensen blows out a harsh breath and falls to the mattress. Bounces a bit with creaky springs, then flaps his arms out as he thinks about the few odd fellows he’s seen thus far. 

_Just one night_ , he reminds himself before shucking off his shoes, socks, and jeans to sleep on top of the giant doily and beneath Mrs. G’s self-portrait.

Sleep would be beautiful after the day he’s had. And the full spread at dinner has him sleepy and content. Everything will be fine in the morning. Absolutely everything.


	2. Chapter 2

DAY TWO

Nothing is fine. Not one thing.

Jensen wakes slowly, blinking and wincing against the sun coming in through the window. The sheer curtains wave in the wind, and he realizes the window is now open when he knows it was shut when he fell asleep. 

Slowly, he takes in what he can see from his position belly down on the bed, scrunched up pillow blocking some of his view. The sunlight lets him see that the walls are a soft blue, quite calming really, though there are plenty more tacky items adorning the walls that he hadn’t bothered cataloging last night. 

The door to the bathroom is cracked open and the light is on, which he’s pretty certain he didn’t do either. 

And there’s a plate full of eggs, toast, and sausage along with a glass of orange juice on the night stand. 

_That_ he definitely did not do. 

He blinks a few more times and pushes the sleep aside to think about the fact that he’s sleeping solely in his boxer briefs after finding the room too stuffy. And now it’s obvious someone has been in the room to deliver breakfast and … go into the bathroom?

Jensen shuffles up on the mattress, then climbs down off the lofted bed to check out the bathroom. He’d discovered how tiny it was when he needed to piss in the middle of the night, and now it’s exceptionally tinier with someone kneeling down with a wrench working under the sink. 

“What the hell?!” he shouts, then adds “Oh God, no!” when he realizes it’s Jared. 

Jared shifts to look at him and stops with his face just about waist high, lacking any manner of personal space given the confinement of the small room. 

“Mornin’,” Jared offers with a tip of a non-existent hat. 

Jensen’s nostrils flare with his anger. Disbelief takes over and he can’t control the shriek in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Jared knocks the wrench against the pipe winding from the sink to the wall. “Fixing the sink.”

“Why right now?”

Now Jared’s smile drifts a bit. “Because Mrs. G. asked me to.”

“While I’m sleeping?” Jensen motions down his chest to make his point of how little he has on. Then feels a quick turn of nerves at that very point, standing here in just his underwear and ranting like a mad man. While facing Jared, who is definitely _not_ a nice sight in a tight, thread-bare navy tee and cargo shorts showing off toned calves.

Jensen stands with his eyes closed as Jared rattles off what all he’s been up to since arriving at the Inn. It appears Jared is Mrs. G.’s maintenance man. Or possibly a handyman. He’s going down the list of items she asked him to tend to this morning and some he took on of his own initiative, including bringing Jensen breakfast. Plenty of explanations come for Jared’s presence, but Jensen is ignoring them all. Instead, he yanks Jared to his feet and shoves him across the room and out into the hallway, slamming the door with a final sigh. 

With a few calming breaths, Jensen leans against the door. Guilt rides him for being so rude, especially to someone who has his belongings. And someone who also left his own things in the bathroom, which Jensen happens upon when he goes to pee. 

After washing up over the sink, Jensen gets dressed in yesterday’s clothes, jeans and plain black tee still dusty from his time spent with the F-100; it’s all he’s got until he gets his bag back and can hit the road again. 

Downstairs, Jensen finds Mrs. G. leading Jared out of the kitchen and into the garden outside. He follows Jared out to apologize, and get his bag, but Mrs. G. interrupts immediately with tea. 

“You missed breakfast after all,” she points out with a sharp look. “I’d hate for you to go all morning without something.”

Jensen frowns, even when she puts a cherry Danish down on the small saucer in front of him. “Sorry for missing you this morning. I saw the plate in my room.”

She pauses from pouring his cup of tea. “What plate?”

“It was—” He sees Jared shaking his head with the tiniest of motions. Jensen stares in return, and when Mrs. G. also looks to Jared, the guy stops shaking his head and beams at her while lifting his own tea cup to sip. “A dream, I guess,” Jensen amends. 

“Oh, sugar,” she coos while patting his cheek like any overbearing grandmother. “You must’ve been so tired last night.” Mrs. G. pats Jared’s cheek the same way, even pushes hair back behind his ear. “And ya slept right through our dear Jared fixin’ up the bathroom.”

Jensen aims a shitty smile at Jared, reliving their meeting in the bathroom, and drops the pretense of amusement once Mrs. G. heads back inside. 

Jared starts, “Look, I’m sorry about this morning—”

Then Jensen interrupts: “I really don’t care. I just want my bag back.”

They share a look, and now Jared appears less like the goofy hack from the day before and more like a guy stuck in a sore spot of knowing he’s wrong. It’s a surprising twist, and Jensen sits back with a slow, steady breath. 

“I left my bag in your truck and then you ran off. I need my clothes and wallet and stuff.”

“You ran off first,” Jared points out from behind his coffee cup.

Huffing, Jensen argues, “I went to make a call because you apparently don’t have a phone in your garage.”

“It ain’t my garage.”

“That too!” Jensen sits forward to argue further. “You brought me to the garage and no one is even around to fix the truck.”

“Well, Richard—”

“Is dead! You brought me to a dead man’s garage! And now what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Who’s dead?” Mrs. G. asks, coming up to the table with a new plate of Danish. “And neither of y’all have eaten your snacks. Is something wrong with them?”

Jared grins at her. “You know your Danish are the best around town.” He picks up the one from his plate and takes about half of it with a single bite. 

When Jared stares at him, and Mrs. G. turns to him as well, Jensen does the same, stuffing his mouth with as much pastry as will fit. It’s a lot. Like, _a lot_. His mouth goes immediately dry while chewing through the mess of sour cherries and jam along with the pastry. No one is talking, and he realizes they’re waiting for him to agree. “Yeah, vewwy goo,” he grunts through his mouthful. 

“Good! There are plenty more!” Mrs. G. puts two more on each of their plates, and Jensen glares down at his before turning to Jared with the same hard look. “Looks like you need some more tea, too. I’ll be right back!”

Once she’s out of ear’s reach, Jensen complains, “I need my stuff back. And I have to get back to the truck.”

Jared watches for a moment, then admits, “She’s at the garage.”

“Since when?”

“Since last night. When I went back to get her.”

Jensen huffs and tosses his hands into the air. “You didn’t think to tell me?”

“I told ya I’d go back for her,” Jared says evenly. “And I did. I keep my promises.”

The screen door clatters when Mrs. G. comes back outside. “Our boy Jared most definitely does keep his promises. Part of why we love him so much.”

Doing his best to not upset his host, Jensen smiles and holds his tea cup up when she tops it off, even when he’s had very little to drink. “He must be a great employee.”

Mrs. G. looks up and around with an odd face. “Well, I can’t say that for sure.”

“He’s not …” Jensen looks at Jared, who keeps a steady, amused expression on his face, and then at Mrs. G. “He doesn’t work here?”

She laughs heartily, leaning in to cup her hand around the back of Jared’s head. Kisses his cheek with a loud smack. “Oh how I wish the li’l muffin would.”

Again, Jensen and Jared are left alone in the backyard, sitting in awkward silence. Jensen glances to the house to be sure Mrs. G. isn’t close enough to hear them, even though the open kitchen windows. “You’re not a mechanic. And you’re not the handyman. So what are you?”

Jared lifts his cup to the soft smile of his lips and takes a long, pleased sip. 

Once more, they’re interrupted by the screen door swinging open. This time it’s a young woman around their age, brown hair short and neatly parted to the side. Her cut-offs boast long, tan legs, her v-neck is deep enough to show a wealth of cleavage, and that smile is brighter than any light Jensen’s seen in his life. 

“Jared!” she exclaims, throwing her arms out in the air, then hugging him tightly while he remains seated. “Gramma said you’d be around today, but I didn’t think you’d stay for tea.”

“I still got a few things to wrap up. And I’m keeping the new guest company.”

She sits on the arm of Jared’s chair, one arm wrapped around his neck to help steady herself, and Jensen notices a strange dark twist in his stomach at her position. She seems to assess him for a bit, taking in all of him, then slowly, slyly smiling as she licks her thumb. 

It’s all rather seductive, if Jensen cared for such a thing from a woman. 

Naturally, it turns weird when Jared sniffs at her. “Is that white chocolate?”

She ignores him completely, keeping her eyes on Jensen. “Gramma said we had someone new in town. You’re just as handsome as she said you’d be. Aren’t we lucky?”

Jensen stares for a few moments until he finally offers, “Thank you?”

“Or me,” she corrects. “Maybe I mean that _I’m_ lucky?”

Not that he expects much help, but Jensen looks to Jared for reprieve, which actually does come. 

“Jensen, this here is Mrs. G.’s granddaughter, Lauren. Lauren, this is Jensen. I picked him and his truck up yesterday.”

Lauren grins and claps her hands. “Oh! The green Ford F-100? That is a gorgeous thing. I’d love to get myself into that seat.”

“It’s Neptune Green,” Jensen finds himself correcting before he can help it. Tries his best to not roll his eyes.

“A bit of a car collector, I see.” She licks her lips and leers at him. “Didn’t know we had lovely collector types around here. Must be quite a successful man to own such a pretty thing.”

“Lauren,” Jared warns, drawing Jensen’s immediate attention. 

Jensen wonders what that really means in combination with Jared’s sharp look right at her. 

“Just making an observation,” she says loftily. 

The whole thing makes Jensen uncomfortable, and he rises from his seat before he can put words to the feeling. “I should go … take care … of stuff.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for their reaction and hurries back into the house. Mrs. G.’s presence in the kitchen startles him, especially when she hits the counter with a plastic soup ladle.

“Gosh durnit,” she complains, “It was right here.”

“What was?” He’s not sure why he’s asking. There are plenty more important things for Jensen to be worrying over now. Yet something about the old widow’s wrinkled, confused face piques his interest. 

“Jared’s payment.”

Jensen immediately looks around for cash, maybe on the floor or another kitchen surface. The table is empty, the floor is basically spit-shine clean, and only a few dishes are stacked in the sink. “Oh, uh, how much was it?”

“About a dozen.”

He lifts both eyebrows and watches her search the kitchen cupboards, even checking beneath the sink. “A dozen what?”

“Cookies, of course!” She huffs and looks through the freezer, pushing a few items aside before slamming the door shut. 

“You pay him in cookies …” Jensen drifts off with his question turning into a statement. Because of course this kooky lady pays the equally oddball Jared in baked goods. 

“That boy hasn’t turned down a cookie in all the years I’ve known him. Asks nothing much for all he does,” she continues on, now checking under the table and chairs in the corner. “And here I go losing it.”

 _Oh you’ve lost it alright,_ he thinks, but wisely remains quiet. “I’m just gonna head back upstairs,” he insists while backing out of the room, “maybe take a shower or something.”

“Oh, yes, honey!” Mrs. G. changes focus and follows him, patting his back and leading him to the stairs. “You go on and do that, make yourself all comfy in the bath. There’re some of Jake’s old shirts in the dressers if you need something fresh.”

Jensen looks over his shoulder, wondering in what world she thinks it’s okay to offer her dead husband’s clothes to a perfect stranger. 

“You help yourself, now, you hear?”

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles as he heads for the bathroom. “If you insist.”

“I surely do, darlin’!”

He’s not about to make himself at home in the tiny bathroom, with pale pink tile and an obnoxious orange flower-patterned shower curtain. It’s screaming out at him, really. But he’s happy for the heat and steam from the shower, as well as the relative quiet of being by himself again. 

 

*** 

 

He’s grateful to be clean, all fresh and rosy, thanks to the frou-frou body soaps in the guest bathroom. The smell remains strong on his skin; he supposes it’s better than the general sweat and grime of the road. 

What he’s not so grateful for is the selection of shirts Mrs. G. had promised him. Turns out Jake is a grandson who hasn’t visited in quite a few years, evidenced by the limited sizes. 

When he shows up at _Dingy Dick’s_ an hour later, he’s not surprised to find Jared there. Nor is he shocked at the way Jared’s eyes widen as he observes the skin-tight high school tee Jensen nearly tore in the process of getting on. 

Jensen doesn’t bother addressing it, just gets down to business with a stern look. “Alright, so what’s the story on the truck? When can I get it back on the road?”

Jared clears his throat and shuffles papers around, seemingly pretends to read them, even when detailing the facts of the truck’s fate. “Well, it seems her fuel pump burst a hole, and well, you know, with her age, it’s a bit difficult to find—” 

“I thought you didn’t know much about cars?” Jensen figures knowing the fuel pump from anything else under the hood says more for what Jared _does_ know. 

“I don’t, no.” Jared is a bit puzzled as he thumbs behind him. “But Richard took a look and he said—”

Jensen furrows his brow. “Richard? I thought he was dead?”

“I’m not dead! At least not yet.” A side door swings open, a flushing toilet announcing the new man just as much as his happy proclamation. His big grin lifts his dark handlebar mustache and equally bushy eyebrows. “But maybe your wardrobe is.”

Doing his best to ignore Richard’s comment and Jared’s apparent amusement at the scene, Jensen immediately asks about the Ford. “So when can we get the truck back up and running?”

Richard wipes his damp hands on the front of his pale blue mechanic’s shirt. Jensen’s pretty sure that’s the exact opposite of sanitary “Oh, she ain’t going anywhere for a long while.”

His stomach drops with dread. “What do you mean? I thought it was just the fuel pump?” He turns to Jared. “You said it was the fuel pump.”

“Yeah, her pump’s all worn out,” the mechanic agrees sagely, then rubs at the edges of the mustache hanging off his chin with his dirty thumb and forefinger. Jensen does his best to not wince at the image of car oil and grime serving as the man’s styling gel. “Could be an easy fix, if only …”

Jensen waits for the rest of the sentence. Even leans in closer to prompt Richard to keep talking. Checks with Jared, too, but the man just stares back. “If only what?”

Richard chuckles “If only she were about 50 years younger.”

He covers his face with his palm. Presses in tight with his thumb and forefinger painfully digging into his eyes. It’s actually helping a bit right now to focus on that rather than this predicament. 

As Jensen stews, Richard explains that the fuel pump is one of a kind and will travel a long, multi-day route to get to their little town. 

“Things take a long time to get to Paradise,” Richard says at the end of his tale. 

Jensen glances between Jared and Richard, waiting for the punchline to a joke he doesn’t know. “I’m sorry?”

“No need to be sorry,” Richard insists, waving off any concern that Jensen actually does not have. “We’re used to it.”

He blinks, then takes a deep breath to steady himself for where this conversation is about to go. “What is paradise?”

“You’re standing in it,” Richard insists while Jared nods. 

Jensen laughs suddenly. “Believe me, this place is nothing like paradise.”

“There’s another town named Paradise?” Richard turns to Jared and frowns. “There’s another town named Paradise.”

“I think there’re a dozen or so around,” Jared says sagely. 

Jensen puts a hand up. “Wait … so this place … it’s actually called …”

“Paradise,” both men say together. 

“How ironic,” he mumbles.

“It’s really fitting,” Richard insists. “Ain’t no place as perfect as this one.”

Jensen narrows his eyes as he considers his current predicament. “Perfect’s not really the word I’d go with.”

Jared butts in when Richard huffs, reaches those long tan arms across the counter to nudge the mechanic away from Jensen. Then he tries on a kind tone for the both of them. “Okay, now, no matter what we all think of Paradise, facts are facts.” He turns to Jensen and frowns. “Looks like Richard’s right, no matter how much you argue about it. There’s no way we can get parts for you before the end of the week.”

“ _The week?_ ” Jensen screeches.

“Good news is your room at the _Red Sky Inn_ is all set for you.”

“What?” Jensen sputters through the thought. “How do you know that?”

“I already asked for you,” Jared explains with a soft smile. “Soon after you ran off the patio, I made arrangements for you.”

Something stirs deep, dark and angry memories. Jensen grits his teeth as he drums up all the independence he’s built for himself in the last decade in the city that never sleeps, where everyone makes their own opportunities. “I don’t need you making arrangements.”

Jared leans back like he’s been hit. Frowns a bit oddly now, like he’s trying to fit pieces of a puzzle together. “I was just helping out.”

“Well, you can help by getting the car running again.”

“That’d be my department,” Richard buts back into the conversation. “And like I said before, ain’t gonna happen any time soon.”

Jensen cuts off any other discussion by heading to the back area, calling out, “I need my stuff.” Thankfully, his bag right there on the passenger side of the bench. He hefts it over his shoulder, reenters the office area, and manages to leave without throwing Jared and Richard a few dirty looks. 

Once outside, he digs into his bag for his charging plug. Not to mention a shirt that actually fits. He comes up with the latter, but the former is missing. Even in the deepest corners or side pockets, he comes up empty. 

Moments later, he pictures the plug in the wall at the last dive he spent the night at. In a rush to hit the road early, he’d left it behind for the cleaning staff to have. _Perfect._

At some point, Jensen has to recognize that he’s in trouble. There’s no way he can ignore the situation, nor keep much of it from Beaver. Especially if Jensen’s delayed for the unforeseeable future. 

He weighs the consequences of telling Beaver the truth … and remembers that gruff threat to his manhood. The old man, offbeat and full of piss and vinegar, let him know that in no uncertain terms, Jensen was fully responsible for the life of the truck.

_Anything happens to my lady, and so help me … I will hold you personally responsible. And I ain’t meaning like courts and money and such. I mean those two boys sitting pretty between your legs._

At the time, Jensen felt a decent amount of weight settling on his shoulders. Not to mention in his jeans. He’d put his hands in front of his most precious jewels in an effort to shield them from the man’s wrath. 

Now, when facing the facts, and being unable to determine how long the delay will be … well, Jensen isn’t about to endanger his fellas. 

Still, he knows he has to update Beaver at some point in the next twenty-four hours. He’s been keeping in touch with the man as the trip progresses; if too much time passes, then Jensen’s balls just may be on the chopping block anyway. 

But first, he needs the man’s number. And a phone charger.

 

***

 

Back at the _Red Sky Inn_ , with his bag, camera, and wallet retrieved, he changes back into his own, fresh clothes and feels at least a little more human. Then he heads back downstairs to find Mrs. G. Only, he can’t.

He searches every room. The dining room is perfectly set for the evening’s dinner. Four place settings make Jensen wonder if there will be other guests at the Inn tonight. The kitchen is spic and span from earlier meals and a new stack of cookies have been set in the center of the mint green Formica table in the corner. He snags one, even when remembering Mrs. G insisted these would be a portion of Jared’s payment. Jensen thinks he deserves a little something for dealing with this town over the last day. 

Then he checks the study, slowing down to take it all in. One wall is stuffed from floor to ceiling with books … everything from classic Jane Austen and Charles Dickens to John Grisham and the entire Harry Potter collection. To the left stands an upright piano, and, before Jensen knows it, his fingers are tapping along the tops of the ivory keys. He thinks back to his grandparents’ house, one on either side of him as they taught him Chopsticks, Ode to Joy, and even a little Heart and Soul. 

The notes tinkle in the air as he swears he can feel the soft sun coming in through the large picture window in his grandparents’ living room, can smell the soft floral perfume Gramma wore for most of her life. Can even feel the comforting warmth of Grandpa leaning in to play notes right alongside him. 

Jensen thinks back to a time and place where he felt engaged and welcomed, before everything fell down around him. Before he cared to stand up for himself, and just went with the flow. Long before he ever came out to his parents and had to hide from the judgment of the town around him. 

His thumb strikes a low, ominous note and he immediately pulls his hands away from the keys. Jensen doesn’t care much for memories, often prefers to live in the now in order to survive a packed city with millions of nameless faces. The busy crowds keep his mind distracted, even when he finds solace in stopping time to capture moments frozen by his camera. 

Instead of diving deeper into these thoughts—long ago pains and stale memories of his own life—Jensen drops the cover over the keys and moves around the room. 

Two oversized chairs are turned towards each other, maroon upholstery worn down at the arms. A side table between them presents a smattering of photos, some as weathered as their tarnished picture frames. Jensen picks them up one by one, then reorders them according to the timeline for quality and color, because these all illustrate Mrs. G. with a number of folks throughout her years here. 

They feature her husband and kids—two girls and one boy—as well as what he guesses are the grandkids that have since grown up and out of town. He stops on the last one, the newest and brightest photo in the lot. Mrs. G. is aged, yet retains the same youthful smile and sparkling eyes that are evident in all the previous shots. She stands on the front steps outside of the Red Sky Inn, leaning on the railing while a young man—lean green bean legs and arms, floppy brown hair shucked across his forehead, and a smile a mile wide—stands tall enough from the ground to ring his arm around her shoulders. 

Jensen blinks a few times. Picks the frame up to get a closer look, pulls it away so his eyes can focus better, and brings it close again. 

“Jensen, my dear!” the woman in question calls out from the doorway. 

He whips around so fast that he knocks over the other frames he just rearranged. He stumbles to put them upright while pretending he wasn’t inspecting all her things. Rattles off, “I’m so sorry, I was just, these are cool, nice, really neat to see.”

She smirks in return, then swats him on the arm. “Oh, no worries. If I didn’t want anyone seein’ these, I wouldn’t bother keepin’ ‘em out. I’m rather proud of them … all of them.” She runs a finger over the corner of the oldest picture where she’s holding the sign to the Red Sky, not yet hanging from the porch; here, it’s proudly displayed in her arms. An exceptionally tall gentleman stands at her side. 

“That’s my Gary,” she says wistfully. “It was 1953 when he bought this place. Was a pretty penny back then. Of course, it could earn an even prettier penny now.”

“Are you thinking of selling?”

“Oh, I could never. Too much here to hold onto. Couldn’t bother to pack all my things and move ‘em somewhere else! Took me so long to accumulate it all. Spent dang near my whole life here. Nothing would be quite as grand.”

Dreamy memories cloud her face, her eyes drifting off to look at a random spot on the wall. 

He thinks about the fact that, just last night, the place seemed to be full of cobwebs and dusty remnants of decades far behind them. Now what he sees is history and a worn-in life that Mrs. G. has carved out for herself. 

“You doing okay, honey?” she asks once she’s snapped out of her reverie. “Need anything?”

He asks about a phone charger, and she offers that he can look in the lost and found. Jensen finds all sorts of odds and ends inside the cardboard box until he unearths a bright pink charging cable connected to a matching outlet plug. 

Jensen grins. “Oh thank God.”

She frowns. “That’s what you’re looking for?”

“Yeah. This is exactly it.”

“That thing has been in there for over a year, and I’d been scared to touch it.”

As he winds the cord around his hand, he playfully narrows his eyes at her. “What did you think it was?”

Now she lowers her voice and leans over the counter to whisper, “One of them pleasure things that Lauren likes to hide away in her bathroom closet.”

Jensen isn’t about to touch that with a ten-foot pole. He’s rather embarrassed that his mind begins slipping into what kind of collection Lauren keeps in her home. Primarily, the problem is that he doesn’t care to think about women in that way.

Helpless to the drag of his brain, he now starts thinking of a man using a vibrator on himself. Long, strong fingers gripping tight around the shaft, inching the piece in while sweat drips down his bare, curved back. Muscles beneath blissfully tan skin stretching and straining as his body so wants to take it in sooner than he’s ready. 

He belatedly realizes he’s thinking of Jared and all but slaps his own face. 

“You okay there, dear?”

Jensen tucks the charger and a few random items into his arms just to busy himself. “Yep, sure, I’m good. I’m just gonna go head out.” He’s on the porch before he gets the last word out. 

The fresh air does him good, along with the bright sun above him. A peaceful blue sky dotted with big fluffy white clouds. With cool spring air sinking into his lungs, Jensen heads around the corner to the downtown strip, shuffling things in his arms until he can look like less of a maniac who ran right out of Mrs. G’s study. 

He thinks about the ice cream shop and getting something cold in him to combat the heat pulsing through his veins as that odd image of Jared pleasuring himself keeps repeating. He’s got about twenty bucks on him, and surely he can get a milkshake or even one scoop of something for only a few bucks. 

It’s not a long walk, but he’s taking it slowly when he hears little feet pitter patter nearby, the tiny etching sound of nails on cement. A fluffy haired squirrel comes up along his side, big bushy tail happily swinging as it scurries on its tiny feet to keep up with Jensen’s ever-slowing stroll. 

Jensen is practically crawling down the sidewalk, waiting for the squirrel to pass him. Instead, it decelerates, too, and picks its head up to stare with beady little eyes. He stalls, fully expecting to be passed. No, the furry thing stops and scampers in short half circles until it fully turns to face Jensen. Stands on its hind legs and holds its front paws together in waiting. 

The door to the ice cream shop swings open, a bell jangling at the handle, and a woman backs her way out of the business while shouting into the shop. Jensen immediately recognizes her for chasing after that ice cream truck the day before; he subconsciously steps out of her path.

“And you tell your brother if his ass isn’t in that kitchen chair by 5:30 on the dot that I’ll make sure he can’t sit on it for a week!” 

Jensen has come to a complete stop while allowing the women to complete her tirade. That’s when she spots him just a few feet away. Intense eyes criticizing his presence, short dark hair flipped this way and that, with a streak of grey reminding him of X-Men’s Rogue and her long band of white hair. 

Somehow, Jensen thinks this woman could be just as dangerous as any of the villains in that series. 

“Can I help you?” she spits out, less like she’s about to sell him a banana split and more like he’s just stolen out of the cash register.

Concise and on his way, Jensen offers, “Nope, I’m good,” and gets back to walking. 

Just as he glances back, he catches the woman blowing a kiss back into the shop and waggling her fingers. “Love you, Colin!” When she turns back to the street, she scowls at the squirrel. Yells at it: “What’re you looking at?”

Jensen hurries to cross the road for anything far away from her. The silly rodent follows him.

He can’t really blame it, after seeing that woman’s tirades. 

This is how he finds himself in _Briana’s Diner_ in his attempt to escape the animal as well as the lunatic yelling at a few other pedestrians for not moving fast enough. Luckily, both stay outside as another bell jangles when Jensen enters the restaurant. It has a brighter, cheery note to it, which matches the jovial blond behind the cash register. She’s calling out to the regulars, punching at the old time register without pause, and then managing cash and coins passing across the host stand faster than money is traded on Wall Street.

He slips between the few residents chatting in front of the host stand and heads right for one of the few empty spots at the long diner counter. The beige Formica winds around in a U shape, bordering the fountain drinks, coffee stands, and a smattering of side dishes and condiments. The kitchen is alive with two cooks visible beyond the pass-thru. Only their heads, covered in bright blue bandanas, can be seen through the window, but they’re busy as hell running from side to side and keeping their attention on what must be the hot grill serving up all these tempting aromas in the air. 

The woman from the register, about Jensen’s age or so, appears in front of him and flips a coffee mug in her palm until it’s right side up on the counter.

“Hey, there pretty boy.” She winks, and he tries to ignore the warm leer. Decides it’s best to not be insulted by her overly friendly demeanor when he spots the name tag pinned high on her chest. _Bri Bri_ it reads, and also features a smear of hot red lipstick across the whole dang thing. She smacks gum in the side of her mouth, snowy white teeth chomping around something blue. 

Jensen briefly thinks she’s all Americana with the burst of red color on her lips. Wonders if she kissed her own nametag or had some other friend leave it behind for her. He clears his throat and gets back to business, waving the charging cord. “You got somewhere I can plug this in?”

She smiles brightly, soft cheeks rising high and pinking up. “Oh, you betcha, sweetcheeks.” It’s a show to watch her futz around behind the counter, following a long, brown extension cord, until she finds the end of it at the coffee pot. When she unplugs the machine, Jensen whimpers. Suddenly, he’s not sure if he’d rather have an operational phone or piping hot joe. 

“Here’s ya go!” Briana exclaims with her hands on her hips, having plunked the cord down on the counter in front of Jensen. “Anything else I can get ya?”

“Coffee?”

“We got plenty of that around here.” Despite the mess of her hair piled atop her head with an unkempt bun and the dozen or so stains across her white apron, she’s rather precise with a high pour of coffee into the mug on the counter. “Cream and sugar, sugar?” She winks again as she smacks the gum in the side of her mouth

Jensen fiddles with the phone charger, idly answering, “Two of each,” just seconds before the items appear next to his mug. A moment later, she’s gone. 

He gawks at the space she’s left empty, a bit impressed with her tornado of activity actually working in his favor. For all the noise filling up the restaurant, he finds it strangely satisfying to be alone in his own bubble. 

The phone is plugged in as Jensen impatiently watches for it to wake up. He sips on the hot coffee, surprisingly delighted by the dark flavor, a more layered body than he’d expect in a town like this. 

Briana sweeps down along her side of the counter with a half-attentive, “You need anything else, sweetie?”

He’s not even done saying, “Any extra papers?” when she drops the Sunday edition in front of him, then moves right along to the next customer. “Not too shabby,” he murmurs to the rim of the mug before taking another healthy sip. 

He slows his drinking when he realizes this is the local town paper and its size matches the community. Only a few pages long, most stories are peculiar bits of gossip. One spread is a flashback to a day in 1967. Jensen scans the article to understand that rains had come down for days on end, creating a river of Main Street. As the water flowed gently to the west, folks brought out canoes and boats, even stray pieces of wood or front doors, to float down the impromptu waterway. 

Briana appears to refill his mug, tapping at the page to which his eyes are glued. “What a beautiful day that was.”

Before he thinks about it, Jensen picks up his head to look at her and asks, “You were there?” At least he sounds a bit confused by the prospect, even when the question is ludicrous.

“Of course not, silly. How old you think I am?”

“Not nearly old enough to have been alive back then. I sure as hell wasn’t,” he insists, even as he wonders if there’s some kind of kooky magic floating through this town. Far too many interesting characters that somehow exist on one plane. 

“Well thank you, sweetie,” she gushes, then winks. “You’d be gratefully right. But the stories my grammy told me about it …” Briana wistfully sighs. “It sounds like a whole ‘nother time and place than today.”

“It already is a whole ‘nother time around here,” Jensen mumbles. 

She shrugs after topping off his coffee. “Maybe that’s part of the beauty in Paradise.” A moment later, her smile is soft, genuine. “I’m sure you’ll learn that while you’re here.”

“No, no,” he laughs. “I’m not staying long.”

“That’s what I said. Sixteen years ago.”

Before Jensen can fashion an answer, she’s back to serving other patrons along the counter. 

He watches her for a few moments, trying like hell to ignore the gentle thread of warmth weaving its way through his body as he watches all these different residents talk and laugh together. A few farmer types exchanging smiles with a man in a bright orange and red striped suit, like something out of a circus. A housewife, complete with a turquoise cardigan and gleaming pearls, toasting what looks like a mimosa with the scruffy guy from the ice cream truck. 

When Jensen looks around the room, really looks, he thinks there’s about one of every kind of person here, yet they’re all chattering away with joy and laughter. As diverse as New York City is, he’s never seen such serenity in his life.

He suddenly wishes he’d brought his camera.

 

*** 

 

When Mrs. G. drags Jensen down to the town square, he remembers his camera. 

They follow the march of folks through Main Street to the end of the two-block downtown where dozens more are gathered. It’s a little less of a landmark square and more of an open park space. But still, signs are staked in the ground and rising high to be seen above folks socializing between picnic tables, cement benches, and even fallen logs that provide seating for all who are here to participate in the event. 

Jensen didn’t even know this was an occasion to celebrate, hadn’t really asked Mrs. G. what was going on, but figured he would follow her fancy in thanks for all she’s doing to put him up in her house and feed him. Now, he’s really wondering what kind of oddity he’s a part of, because there are folks walking around with baskets full of dying dandelions, no longer bright with yellow petals.

He finally makes out the words on the signs proclaiming this to be the Dandelion Dance. 

There’s absolute confusion mixing with a tendril of curiosity. His instinct is to snap pictures, watch through the viewfinder of his camera and capture the moments. Kids plucking dandelions and grass from the ground, tossing it all up in the air. Old couples holding hands and blowing at the dandelions’ wispy white seed heads, making them flutter away. Friendships bloom as the white threads dance through the air and laughter rings out. 

Jensen thinks it may be the most absurd event to celebrate, yet so many of his pictures tell a different story. Even under the warm sun, the dandelion seeds create a snow globe effect in every shot on his camera. And the joy on everyone’s faces is so contagious, Jensen feels himself grinning as he snaps hundreds of photos across the park. 

Along the way, he finds himself zeroing in on a familiar tan face, head high above the crowd. He lowers his camera before snapping the photo of Jared waving dandelions high above his head, seeds showering down around him and a dozen children dancing through the faux shower. 

“Such a good guy, huh?” someone says just before elbowing Jensen in the side. 

He flinches away at the contact, then again when he sees it’s the woman from the ice cream shop. 

She smiles at his reaction. “I get that a lot.”

Jensen only smiles in return, not daring to say the wrong thing and get on her bad side. 

“So you’re Jensen,” she says more than asks. “And apparently a photographer.”

He looks down at the camera in his hands, then feels stupid for doing so. A bit self-conscious about it, he shrugs and drops arms to his side to take the attention away. “An amateur really. Maybe just a hobby.

“Maybe?”

“I’m’ working on it.” Jensen has been saying that for nearly a decade. And he’ll probably keep saying it, but it’s not a lie. He takes pictures of all sorts of things in New York City—intricate and aging structures, people bustling about the packed streets, the flashy lights of night life—just hasn’t been able to get any on display. 

But he’s working on it … _someday_ , he tells himself. 

With an eyebrow raised and her eyes narrowed, she’s just as menacing as she’s appeared so far. Yet there’s a playful tilt to her mouth. “Hobbies aren’t meant to hide, Jensen. If you have to, then it’s more of a shameful kink, right?” 

He flinches when she nudges him in the side again. 

A moment later, she puts her hand out to shake. “I’m Kim by the way. And those numbskulls over there are my boys.” She reaches across Jensen to point out two young men wrestling each other over a fist full of dandelions. “The idiot who won’t share is Colin and the moron who can’t be patient is Brock.”

“You must be … proud,” Jensen tacks on without much else to say for the scene. The boys are now tangled up with errant arms and legs kicking around, rolling over the grass and gathering a ring of townspeople cheering for one or the other. 

He belatedly realizes that while they seem young, there’s a bit of height and weight to each of them. He thinks they could be early twenties … and still warring like children.

“They’re the biggest lugheads I ever did meet,” she says with pursed lips. “But I love them like they’re my own.”

“Oh, they’re …” Jensen drifts off, wondering just how much he really needs to know about them. If she’ll be offended for him asking.

“Adopted,” she supplies. “Poor boys grew up in a group home after all their parents passed. I was only expecting to take Colin. His sweet little smile got to me. But when I watched ‘em, I noticed that Brock kept a close eye on him, had a protective arm around his shoulders whenever anyone came near. I couldn’t split those two up.”

He looks at her and considers a whole new layer to this woman. “That’s … amazing.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty good like that,” she says with an air of arrogance, belied by the pink of her cheeks as she watches the boys continue to fight. “I should probably stop them, though, before they kill someone.” As she leaves Jensen, she’s immediately shouting, “You two dumbasses get off the ground before I put you six feet under it!”

“Kim’s a charmer,” Jared says, now standing in her place. “Quite a talker once you get her goin’.”

Jensen startles, shifting away immediately. Seconds later, he finds himself rocking back into the little divots his feet have made in the grass over the last half an hour. He realizes that for all the crowd has shuffled around, he’s stayed in the same two-foot radius to snap photos all around him. The thought confuses him a bit, to have zoned out enough to not realize that the _Dandelion Dance_ has settled down and folks are now heading off to different corners of the park, back to where they came from. 

Within minutes, it’s just Jensen and Jared standing alone in the park, the ground covered in a thin sheet of white dandelion tendrils. 

“You’re not much of one, are you?” Jared asks. 

Jensen blinks at him, thinks that Jared’s easy smile is less crazy than the day before. A little easier on the eyes, for sure. 

“I guess that’s my answer,” he laughs. It’s not bitter, though. Just a light teasing sound that rumbles a bit in Jensen’s chest. 

He’s unsure why it’s happening, or how, but he finds himself staring at Jared with a bit of wonder. Did he dream up the whole mess of the hapless townie he met yesterday? Was it all shrouded in the mess of Jensen’s anxiety at being stranded? Is it possible that he can now see Jared in a different light and find something more easy and relatable in the man’s smile, in those soft eyes watching him now? 

Jared either doesn’t mind the awkward silence, or he knows how to heal it, because he just goes right on talking as he strolls slowly across the park. In some sort of trance, Jensen follows, listening carefully to all that Jared has to share about the history of the Dandelion Dance, how it started decades ago when Mrs. G. was a little girl, blowing out all the dying dandelions she could find. 

Jensen glances around with a strike of worry that he’s abandoned Mrs. G., when she brought him here in the first place. 

“I’m sure she went back to make dinner,” Jared explains. He tucks his hands into jean pockets and rocks a little on his heels as he watches Jensen. “She won’t be upset that you’re still here.”

“How do you know?” Jensen asks, voice seemingly loud in his ears when they’re completely alone in the middle of the park.

“Because Mrs. G. is that way. So long as you had a good time here, she’ll be happy. She likes when folks relive her memories.”

“Really?” He bristles a bit at the idea that people would build a town event around something trivial he did as a child. Then again, he doesn’t have the best memories of the tiny, stuffy suburb where he grew up. Makes him cynical to this day and causes him to side-eye folks who gossip and chat about anyone and everything in town. 

“You don’t think so?”

Jensen lets out a snort and looks away as he admits, “It just all seems really silly. To create a whole thing out of one little moment.”

“I dunno. I think it’s kinda sweet.” Jared shrugs and offers a crooked smile. “Kinda like my Uncle Bruce always said … them glory days, they’ll pass you by.”

“Glory days,” Jensen says immediately, hearing the melody of the song immediately. “In the wink of a young girl’s eye,” he finishes with a flat look to Jared.

Jared looks surprised, but not ashamed. Downright _delighted_. “Oh, you’ve heard the saying?”

Now Jensen is glaring at Jared for the ridiculousness. “It’s a song.”

“I dunno about that …”

“It’s a Bruce Springsteen song.”

Jared laughs and waves a hand through the air. “I think I’d have heard if someone wrote a song about that.”

Jensen stares at Jared’s back as the guy walks ahead of him, kicking at the white stems covering the ground. Jared is laughing to himself, or maybe at Jensen, and muttering about songs and his uncles being so wise, and other nonsense that makes Jensen stand in this spot and wonder if he’s going crazy just by staying in Paradise.


	3. Chapter 3

DAY THREE

After breakfast, Jensen walks over to that mangy pay phone with a pocket weighed down with quarters. Thanks to Mrs. G., he’s got enough to make a handful of calls. And thanks to the new charging cord from the inn’s lost and found, he can access his contacts. 

Still can’t get much in the way of service. His email app tells him there are items waiting to be read. The damn things won’t load in this random black hole that is Paradise.

The pay phone ringing is like salvation, granting him a connection back to New York City. He’s thankful when he hears Samantha’s voice on the other end. 

“Morgan Mixed Media. This is Samantha Smith. How can I help you?” she asks in a practiced cadence. 

“Hey Sam, it’s Jensen,” he offers with a bit of hesitation, preparing to hear a lecture for disappearing for two straight days. The studio has its big Summer show next month, and he’s been coordinating between artists and contracts to finalize a few troublesome folks who want the best spot in the joint. 

His title of Media Liaison only tells half the story; he has to facilitate between the stiffness of the studio’s owner and the delicate, dramatic, and cocky mix of artists seeking the best wall with the most prominent lighting.

“Jensen,” she hisses under her breath, “where have you been? We’ve sent you a hundred emails. Sheppard has been threatening to pull out of the show and Jeff has lost it.”

She sounds nervous and frantic, as well as confused about his absence. Not to mention the present predicament.

Sheppard has a particular temperament that none at the studio have been able to cool. Still, the man brings plenty of interested parties with deep pockets, so they deal. And he has somehow taken a liking to Jensen, which leaves this in Jensen’s lap to fix. 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Jensen laments, knocking the side of his head against the glass. As limited as his job is, he rather enjoys being close to the action of artists and photographers he wants to one day call peers. If he screws up here, he’ll have to start over at another studio—if anyone would have him. “I’ve had car troubles and am stuck in a place with bad reception. I asked my friend to call and let you guys know I’d be out of touch for a bit.”

In the midst of Sam’s long pause, Jensen can hear another voice in the background: low and rough, pointed and particularly unsatisfied. 

With the shuffling on the other end, he prepares himself to face the wrath of Jeff Morgan, the very man whose name appears on the gallery’s door.

“Jensen?” Jeff asks, though he doesn’t stop for confirmation before going on. “I thought we had an agreement. You said you needed a week away from the studio, but you’d be in contact, always available, and would wrap up these hanging strings.”

Jensen forces some strength into his voice. “Yes, sir. We did agree to all that. Unfortunately, there have been some unforeseen—”

“And now I have Sheppard emailing all his demands, as if I care what a pompous blowhard like him wants? You know what I care about, Jensen?”

 _The bottom line_ , Jensen wants to answer. He’s worked with Jeff long enough to know that this is all rhetorical, though, so he stays silent.

“I care that there is a show in five weeks,” Jeff continues, “and I care that this show brings in people with money. And that those people spend lots of their money in my gallery. If I cared about artists, I wouldn’t have Sam managing the art, or you babysitting the people.”

“Yes, I realize that. And I am very sorry for the … situation.” Jensen holds his breath for another barrage of complaints. 

The line is eerily silent.

Jensen continues, “And I will get this all corrected. Everything will go on like we planned. I’ll call Sheppard and we’ll sort it out.”

Jeff lets out a stiff _hrmph_ and hands the phone back to Sam. 

“Jensen, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “But we really need you to talk to Sheppard. I have too much else on my plate with the Fall show.”

He knows that. Also knows that there’s no way he can put this in her court. As the studio’s curator, she’s always a few months ahead of Jensen, lining up new pieces and feature stand-out artists throughout the year. 

They sort out a few details with promises of Jensen getting to his emails as soon as possible. Then he finally gets to the emails from Beaver over the last two days, asking if everything is okay with the truck and when will it arrive. Jensen has a fresh wave of guilt over lying to Beaver, but is thankful is finally has access to emails to respond.

Jensen puts his phone back in his pocket with an even heavier weight on his shoulders.

He needs to get out of Paradise. At the very least, he has to find a way to get within range of a cell tower. 

Jensen decides to stop at the garage for an update with Richard about the truck then roam downtown. Maybe capture a few Main Street scenes while he’s at it, his trusty camera in hand.

Once on Main Street, he watches traffic both ways, which isn’t much, but an old station wagon meanders one way while a few boys on dirt bikes head in the other. He hops off the curb and shuffles along the pavement. Doesn’t make it even halfway across before a whistle blows behind him. Hurrying to make the other side of the street, he dismisses the whistle, even as it keeps going at a quick rhythm. Then it blows solidly as the noise grows closer. 

He half expects to turn around and see Jared. The guy pops up everywhere, after all.

No, he is face to face with a man in a uniform, dark blue and all tidy from the collar down to his spic-n-span shoes. His hair is light yet shorn tight to his scalp, and he squints against the sun as he rattles off Jensen’s infringement.

“You have any idea what laws are like around here, son?”

 _Son?_ The guy doesn’t seem a day older than Jensen. Something about his quick chatter makes him seem even younger. 

“Jaywalking is a critical offense,” he continues. “Especially around here with all the people coming and going on Main Street.”

“I didn’t realize …” Jensen tapers off as he thinks about the thousands of New Yorkers cutting across every street, every day. Jaywalking isn’t a thing back home. In fact, it’s a necessity to get around. 

“Of course you didn’t realize.” The cop backs up his attitude with a cocky stance, feet shoulder-width apart, hands resting on the sides of his belt where a gun rests on one hip and a baton on the other. “You’re not even from around here.”

Jensen glances around and wonders if he’s on candid camera.

Then he wonders … do they shoot people around here for crossing the street in the wrong place?

“But we all gotta learn our lesson sometime.” The officer whips out his ticket book and pen from his shirt pocket, makes a show of clicking the ball point into place and snaps his gum with more arrogance. “Alright, Jensen, what’s your last name?”

“Excuse me?” Jensen stutters for an answer, stuck on the fact that the cop knows who he is. He has no idea who this guy is, and looks for the name tag on his uniform. “Look, Officer Murray.”

“Michael Murray.”

Jensen has never heard of an officer wanting to be known by his full name, but … “Okay, look, I’m really sorry for crossing the street—”

“In the wrong place.”

“In the wrong place,” he agrees with a kind nod and easy voice. “And I realize it’s a serious matter around here, but surely this can just go off as a warning.”

“My whistle was my warning.” Office Murray spins his whistle from its spot on his belt, where the double rope is tied around a beltloop. “And I blew it a lot without you even caring.”

“I care, I do, I really care,” he offers with an apologetic smile. “But like you said, I’m not from around here, and I didn’t know it was such a serious offense.”

Officer Murray drops his head to write out the ticket, checking off boxes with a flourish as he talks. “Well now you do. Full name is Jensen … ”

With a sigh, Jensen adds: “Ackles.”

“And your address?”

Another sigh, and he answers. “210 151st Street.”

Officer Murray quickly looks to Jensen, then all around. “151st … son, are you playing tricks with me?”

Jensen wants to run away, especially as he spots the folks from the ice cream shop—Kim with her two boys—come outside to see what all the ruckus is about. “No, not at all. I actu—”

“You yankin’ my chain? Because you think out here in Paradise, we don’t take the law seriously?”

“I didn’t say that,” he argues, ignoring the squeak in his voice.

“Where are you staying?” Officer Murray demands.

“In New York City.”

The officer sets his hands back on his belt, a palm resting on the butt of his gun. “Right now. Where are you sleeping?”

“I’m not actually sleeping right now.” _Or am I?_

“Don’t you be cute with me.”

“I’m not trying to be!”

“Oh, Chad, you leave him be,” Kim butts in, inserting herself between them. She stands nearly as tall as the officer, yet is surely more intimidating when she stares him down. “This boy’s staying with Mrs. G. Jared brought him into town two days ago.”

Jensen can’t decide between being thankful for her intervention or suspicious of how much she knows about him when their conversation yesterday was so short.

“You could just ask the nice, cute boy for his license, take down his info, and write him a proper ticket.”

“Thank you,” Jensen offers her gratefully. Then it hits him. “Wait. I still get a ticket?”

Kim turns on him now. “Boy, I saw you crossing the street right in the middle. You didn’t notice those nice, shiny yellow lines at the corner? I swear I ought to slam you up side your head.”

He quickly moves away from her rising hand as though she’s about to strike him. “No, you’re right. I’m very sorry for crossing in the wrong place. I won’t do it again.” He retrieves his wallet from his back pocket and displays it to the officer, all while cowering from them both.

She smiles proudly at Jensen, almost fondly, as Officer Murray writes the jaywalking ticket. “You’re a real good kid, Jensen.”

When she slaps his back, hard, he stumbles forward and grimaces. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “Didn’t know we were such friends.”

“I got a feeling we’ll be real good friends.” She winks at him, though her sweet disposition is soured when Colin and Brock join the group and she growls at them. “What have I told you idjits about minding your own business?” 

Jensen watches her grab an ear on each of the boys and drag them back across the street to the ice cream shop. “Wow,” he says with a sharp tilt of his head as the door swings loudly shut, bell rattling from the inside.

“Yeah, she’s a lunatic,” Officer Murray says with the easiest tone he’s had thus far. Then he frowns while looking at the store. “When she started yelling, I almost peed a little.”

“And you’re the police?” Jensen asks; at the same time, he tries his hardest to forget what the officer had last said. 

“Kim Rhodes bows to nobody.” He yanks the ticket out of his book and smacks it to Jensen’s chest. “And I don’t bow to nobody but her, so here’s your ticket. Have a nice day. Hope you enjoy the Bank Bash tonight.”

Jensen dares himself to read the ticket while standing there on the sidewalk, in broad daylight. He yells after the departing officer, “Two hundred dollars?!”

Officer Murray spins around, blows his whistle sharply, then barks out a new warning. “Noise complaints run another one fifty. You wanna push your luck?”

Jensen immediately shrinks back with his hand in the air. “No, sir, not at all.” He offers a pathetic wave and smile as he watches the officer leave. “Jesus Christ, this town is nuts.”

A bell chimes to his left, and a man pedaling an-old timey high wheeler bicycle approaches him. “Did someone say nuts?” he asks with joy. The orange and red striped top hat matches the pants, though the Brianaght green suspenders and salt and pepper beard are oddities. “Fresh salty nuts! Made this morning by yours truly!”

“No thanks,” Jensen says flatly while taking in the peculiar ride. Surely novelty bicycles are only seen in the circus. And that must’ve been fifty years ago. Then Jensen remembers seeing this particular outfit at the diner yesterday. 

The man tips his hat towards Jensen as he pedals the high bike back and forth to maintain balance. Then proudly declares: “Omundson O-Nuttery has the finest nuts around. Hot and fresh every day!”

In lieu of answering, Jensen lifts his camera up, finds the man in his viewfinder, and snaps a quick succession of photos. Some feature the full stature of the high wheeler, others focus on the man’s outfit combined with the lavishly colored sign hanging from strings tied around the bike’s frame. The final few capture the pure glee on his face, cheeks rising high and pink while his beard parts around his mouth to reveal a brigt toothy smile. 

“My portraits don’t come free, ya know,” the man insists with a narrowed look.

There’s something about Paradise, Jensen thinks, buried beneath the absurdity of it all. And maybe he’ll get it all on his camera. He thinks it’ll offer the studio a slice of life no one has ever seen before; maybe he’ll finally get something exhibited there. He kisses his boss’s ass for that very reason, yet it hasn’t happened. 

“I’ll take the smallest bag of your finest nuts.”

“That’ll be ten dollars.” 

He’d complain about the steep price for just a bag of nuts, but it’s a rather hefty sack being tossed down to him. Heavy and wide in his palm, Jensen thinks he just may have made out on the right end of this deal. 

Jensen tucks the bag under one arm as the man pedals off before snapping a few dozen photos of the man’s exit until Jensen steps into Jensen’s view, approaching the bicycle. The two men share a handshake, made more complicated with a few choreographed moves and a shot of finger guns. 

Suddenly, Jared turns to Jensen and smiles, shooting playful finger guns his way. Jensen purses his lips at the way he immediately raises his hand to give a thumbs up before he can realize he’s responding. 

He shakes off the way Jared’s broad smile makes him warm down to his toes and rushes to enter _Dingy Dick’s_. The office is empty, yet there’s loud classic rock playing back in the garage, so he heads there to find the mechanic. The truck is raised up on a jack, and a pair of legs stick out from underneath, feet dancing to the beat of the song. 

“Richard?” Jensen asks before knocking on the side of the truck’s trunk. 

The mechanic slides out from under the Ford on a rolling pad, wheels squeaking as he appears. His coveralls are filthy with grease while his face and hands are clean. Surprisingly, he’s eating a sandwich. “Heya Jensen!” Richard happily calls out then continues chewing. 

Jensen bends over to look beneath the truck for any tools; there are none. Richard is just eating an early lunch while hiding under the F-100? Slowly, he asks, “How’s going?”

“Perfect. I got a mean grilled ham and cheese from Briana, and there’s Skynyrd on the radio. Can’t complain!” With another big bite, bread crumbs get caught on his mustache, which dances as he continues to chew. “What can I do you for?”

Attempting a smile, Jensen shucks the strap of his camera up on his shoulder and motions at the vehicle. “Was just checking in on the truck. You got her running yet?”

Richard laughs boisterously. “Oh, no, heaven’s no. Still waiting on the part.”

“But it’s on its way?”

“Eventually.”

He narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Richard takes another large bite of his sandwich, though it doesn’t stop him from talking with his mouth full. “I put the order in over the weekend. Should take a few days to hit the mail. Then we wait.”

“So checking in is pretty useless at this point?” Jensen hates to admit it, but he’s seeing his days in Paradise stacking up before he has a chance to get back on the road. 

“Looks like. But hey! There’s plenty else to keep ya busy. Tonight’s the Bank Bash!”

He’s afraid to ask … yet has to. “And what’s that?”

“A good ole party for the bank. Kim’ll serve up some of her stuff, and we all get to open new bank accounts.”

He figures the bank must be new and starting off with a big event. Maybe not so strange. Something more economical and helpful than the Dandelion Dash. 

“See you there!”

 

“Yeah, I guess,” Jensen admits, then waves on his way out. He quickly doubles back to the garage and chances his luck. “You know anyone with wifi around here?”

Richard chortles. “Oh Heavens! What for?"

“Yeah, figures.” 

Once back on the sidewalk, Jensen finds another peculiar sight. That damned squirrel is back, seeming to rest on its back legs and wait for him. 

It takes a few moments for his cynicism to cool down before Jensen pulls the bag of nuts out of his pocket and tosses a few down to the squirrel. The rodent quickly eats them up, cheeks bulging out with the snack quickly tucked into its mouth. It claps its hands together, and Jensen gives him a few more before walking away. 

Only, the squirrel continues to follow. It races to catch up to Jensen, pausing for a random twig or leaf on the ground, then hurrying to find Jensen again. 

He likens it more to a cat than a rodent, and, within minutes, Jensen is thoroughly amused. Laughing to himself deliriously for how silly it is that the squirrel is so interested in following him, Jensen moves around town and captures the place waking up. Stores open, people come along to walk the breezy sidewalks, and birds chirp their way through melodies to each other. 

He supposes he could be stuck in worse places. 

 

*** 

 

Jensen returns to the _Red Sky Inn_ for dinner, tail tucked between his legs for having missed all of Mrs. G.’s other scheduled meals. 

Before he can properly apologize, she swats him with a towel and shoos him out of the kitchen. “We can talk all about it over dinner. Now go clean yourself up.”

He grins at her as warm childhood memories wash over him. Of his gramma and mom serving home cooked meals, lovingly knocking him around so that he would mind his own business while they took up all available space in the kitchen to feed their family. 

Up in his room, he discovers the clothes he’s worn the last two days have been washed and folded in a neat stack on the bed, along with a new bar of wrapped soap and other toiletries. The whole package is tied with a silky red bow, and the tag tucked at the knot is a replica of the _Red Sky Inn_ ’s sign out front. It’s so delightful. This whole place is, he’s slowly realizing. Easy and comfortable in a way New York City isn’t, no matter how much he enjoys the busyness of metropolitan life. 

It’s such a strange juxtaposition, really. He ran away from Small Town, Texas, because he hated the tight-knit community that knew all his scars, and friends and family who cared too much for what everyone saw and thought of each other. 

When Jensen came out in high school, his parents weren’t unhappy so much as disappointed. He wasn’t exiled by any means, but it was hard for them to relate to him once he could no longer promise them a white picket fence, beauty queen wife, and two-point-five kids. His father was front and center at church, helping to manage all the big fundraisers and events, and his mother was raised in the deep South where wives cooked for their husbands every night, dressed clean and neat, and kept the house just as tidy. 

He doesn’t often like to return to those worn-out memories. There’s a good reason he left: to look forward, not back. And now he’s found himself in a town just like his hometown,

At least the folks here have been receptive to him, treating him kindly in just these few days. Despite his first reactions being rather cold and removed. 

It’s what he’s done for the past fifteen years, after all. Ever since his high school best friend—his first for pretty much everything—backed away from the relationship that was building between them, simply because he refused to face whatever attention they would grab from the traditional good’uns all around them. 

Hell, maybe that’s why he ran in the first place. To put as much space between them as possible and recreate himself. 

Being stuck in Paradise may be another chance to do just that. 

In the big city, he felt like he’d found himself. That was where he met Jason, while working as a dish washer in a fairly high-end restaurant where Jason played classical guitar on Sunday nights for tips. Jason would play long past the kitchen closing to keep entertaining the diners as they finished up their fancy meals, and Jensen would come out of the kitchen after long hours spent cleaning up after the rich and happy. They found a quick friendship when the whole crew would go out for drinks at a dive bar around the corner.

Jason’s about the only person he’d call a real friend back in New York. Others are simple acquaintances with whom he doesn’t mind crossing paths. Yet, he thinks most folks in Paradise have already shown him far more consideration than he’s encountered in a long time. 

As if completing these thoughts, a loud bell jangle from the first floor, and he can hear Mrs. G. yell out for supper. Seconds later, the comforting smells of barbecue fill the air, and he thinks he might try to make the best of Paradise while he’s here.

 

*** 

 

The Bank Bash convenes in the street and on the sidewalk in front of the bank. Jensen watches the crowd from the outside, snapping a few photos and just taking it all in. Two bank tellers seated at folding tables help customers open bank accounts—savings, checking, and check cards, despite not many places in town accepting them. 

“In case we want to travel,” Jared explains, leaning in to Jensen’s side to be heard above the crowd. 

Jensen only minorly flinches. Considers it a win when Jared can’t laugh at him for being easily spooked. “What?” he asks anyway, because he’s a bit confused with Jared finishing his thoughts. 

“The check cards. If we want to travel, then we can still access our money.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “If?” 

Jared chuckles. “Most people come here and stay a while. Doesn’t often happen the other way around.”

Jensen lifts the other eyebrow now. “Oh really?”

“Yup. Most folks rather enjoy Paradise. Even if you don’t.”

Bristling a bit, Jensen ducks his head. “I didn’t say I don’t like it.”

“You’re not really enjoying yourself,” Jared points out, nudging Jensen’s arm.

“Maybe if it had cell service.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Jensen nudges Jared back before he realizes it, adds on a smirk just to prove the point. “Maybe I’m learning to like it.”

“Gonna put down some roots here then?” There’s hope in Jared’s voice, and while Jensen is hesitant to agree, he feels guilty that he can’t confirm it either. “Wouldn’t be the first. Definitely won’t be the last. There’s a certain draw to this place.”

Jensen turns to face Jared, curiosity building quickly. “And how’d you end up here?”

“I started here.”

“And you never left?”

“Never had much of a need to,” Jared replies simply, and it seems like a masterful conclusion to a worldwide question. 

Jensen often wonders the same thing. What keeps people in their hometowns even as they outgrow them? 

Mrs. G. comes their way, waving a piece of paper in the air. “Hey there boys! Look who’s got a new bank account!”

“That’s awesome!” Jared beams as he hugs her, and Jensen wonders how a business owner could be in this town for this many decades without a place to keep her money. “How many is that now?”

“Fifteen!” she crows in delight. 

“Fifteen,” Jensen parrots. “You have fifteen bank accounts?”

“Surely! One for each year.” Mrs. G. swipes Jensen’s chest with the paper. “Silly boy. Gotta do what you can to support the local businesses!”

She disappears, and Jensen looks at Jared. “She has fifteen?”

Jared shrugs like there’s nothing out of the ordinary. “That’s how many years the bank’s been here.”

Jensen considers acting out against that idea, to explain all the ways in which this whole event is utterly insane. Instead, he just sighs and rolls with it. Then he thinks longer on Mrs. G.’s history here. “How old is she, anyway?”

“Oh, no, Jensen,” he says with a playfully menacing tone. “You never ask a lady her age.”

He chuckles. “That’s why I’m asking _you._ ”

“I’ll never tell you the number. But I will say she’s far from being the oldest in town.”

Jensen glances around and immediately recognizes that there are a number of grey-haired folks in the crowd. Some move slower than Mrs. G. taking the stairs, and Jensen wonders how such an eclectic mix of residents came to settle here. “Must be something in the water,” he murmurs.

“My Uncle Billy always said, ‘Only the good die young.’”

Jensen laughs. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“That’s Billy Joel,” he points out.

Jared tips his head in thought. “I’m pretty sure it was my Uncle Billy.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

“We’ll agree to disagree.”

Jensen carefully watches Jared, ultimately smiling when Jared does. “Okay. I guess we will.”

“That’s a bit of a change, isn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

“You not wanting to fight? Seems like it’s all you’ve done since you got here.”

Jensen considers answering, rolls plenty of words around in his mouth, yet he can’t find the right way to put them together. Jared isn’t wrong; Jensen’s been fighting much of what’s been put in his way the last few days. 

Jared turns back to the crowd and leans a bit into Jensen’s side, knocking their shoulders together. “You know, no matter how much cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens.”

“Another Uncle Billy quote?” Jensen asks, skepticism evident in his voice and glance. 

“No,” Jared says with a strange look. “Abraham Lincoln.” 

Now he just stares at Jared, unable to even blink at the sudden change in quote choices.

Jared adds on: “Sixteenth President of the United States.”

Laughing to himself. “Yes, Jared, I know who he is.”

“He means that no matter how much people fight, they always find a way to care about each other.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Jensen stews in the thought for a while. 

He’s fought attachments for so long, thanks to a couple bad relationships. 

Jensen hasn’t thought about his particularly pathetic history in a long time, though it colors much of his judgment of folks even today. Keeps him mighty protective of himself.

“And people can find a way to love,” Jared continues, “And make love.”

Jensen watches Jared closely. Tries to figure out if Jared is purposefully making this point to him, or just talking. It seems either is possible, really, given the way people in this town have been trying to befriend him.

“I mean sex, Jensen.”

Now Jensen breaks, bending at the knees, with hysterical laughter breaking free. 

It could be the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. Or the cleverest, because he spends the rest of the bash following Jared around to meet more of the townspeople. Partly because he’s ready to let his guard down. Mostly because he wants to be there for any other ridiculous things Jared has to say. Laughter feels good.

And if he opens a bank account by the end of the night, well … he considers it just a little bit of community support.  
 


	4. Chapter 4

DAY FOUR

For the first time since he arrived in Paradise, Jensen is up, showered, and at the dining room table by the time breakfast is served. When Mrs. G. enters the room with two full plates of breakfast—pancakes and sausage with fresh squeezed orange juice and steaming coffee already on the table—she grins like a proud mother to see he’s there. 

“And how did we sleep last night, sweetie?” she asks as she sets his plate before him. 

“Very well.” He drizzles syrup over the stack of pancakes, licking his lips for the amazing flavors he can’t wait to get in his mouth. 

Mrs. G. puts the other plate down then lovingly pats his head. “That’s quite a wonderful thing, isn’t it?”

Just before he digs in, he looks up, keeping his fork just above the food. Smiles kindly as he recognizes that, yes, it is a rather wonderful thing. He smiles in return, then gets to eating. 

As he savors the fluffy cakes and sweet maple syrup, Jensen moans and shuts his eyes, even tips his head back with satisfaction running through him. It’s during his run of lascivious noises when the door to the kitchen swings open, and Mrs. G. is ushering Jared into the room and towards the other place setting at the table. 

Jensen figures he could be ashamed for being caught making such noises, or he could keep on enjoying his breakfast. He goes for the latter while Jared sits down across from him. 

Jared clicks his tongue. “You just might be embarrassing yourself there, Jensen.”

A mix of pancake and sausage is tucked into his cheek when Jensen replies, “I just might not care, Jared.”

“That’s good.” Jared smirks at his plate as he gets to eating his own breakfast. “That’s real good.”

Jensen pauses from eating long enough to take a healthy gulp of orange juice. As Mrs. G. refills his glass, Jensen watches Jared cut into his own food and inhale a good quarter of the stack in seconds. There’s something to be said for the size of Jared’s mouth, to take in that much food. Jensen could comment on it, but he doesn’t. Keeps the dirty thought to himself with their host still in the room and enjoys the company for breakfast. 

“So, what brings you here this morning?” Jensen asks. “Another pipe need fixing?”

Jared’s gaze rises, along with the corner of his mouth, as he considers Jensen’s sly comment. “I’m always good with the pipes. How about you? What’re you up for?”

Jensen chuckles then catches Mrs. G. stalled at the door, carafe of juice in her hands as she watches them. Jensen offers her a smile and buries any dirty comment he could have fired back at Jared. Takes another big bite of pancakes as Jared gives a real answer. 

“Smelled some good cookin’ going on and had to get some.”

If that’s actually an answer … Jensen isn’t sure, but he doesn’t really mind. Finds himself happy to have a breakfast buddy, rather than eating in silence like the last few meals. He tries to weigh if he’s more delighted that it’s Jared. 

“And what’re you doing up so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?” Jared asks, shooting a few quick glances Jensen’s way. 

With Mrs. G. heading back to the kitchen, Jensen smirks. “You been checking out my tail, Jared?”

“Isn’t everyone?” Jared winks and Jensen accepts that he has faced a number of folks granting him special attention since he’s been here. 

“I’m thinking of getting out for some pictures,” Jensen clarifies. “Maybe wander a bit outside of downtown. You got any good ideas for places I could check out?”

Jared takes his time to drink coffee, holds the warm mug between his hands as he watches Jensen take another forkful of pancakes. “You looking for a tour guide?”

He’s not so sure he is. He’s also not sure it’s a bad idea. “You offering?”

“You just have to ask.”

Jensen licks his lips, clears away a dollop of butter and syrup, then wipes his mouth as he realizes he’s just cleared his plate in record time. He drinks from his own coffee mug and draws out the thick silence as far as possible. Matches Jared’s stare, too. “Do you have some time to play tour guide?”

Jared’s voice is warm, caring, and thoughtful when he says, “If you only learn one thing here, you’ll find that there’s all sorts of time to do what you want.”

Jensen feels something heavy in the air, and in Jared’s answer. There’s also a strange pressure in his chest as he considers what all that really means. He swallows against the thickness in his throat and smacks his tongue in his mouth. Figures he doesn’t have anything to lose, and nods. “I’d love to learn a lot of things around here.”

Tipping his head, Jared considers him. “Really? What brought about this change of heart?”

“Well, I figure the truck isn’t gonna get fixed any sooner if I pray on it.” Jensen sets his napkin back on the table and leans back in his chair. The words slide easily out of his mouth, and he realizes he absolutely means it. “Why not make the best of the time?”

“Then let’s head on out!” Jared happily declares as he gets up from the table. He’s heading to the front of the house before Jensen can manage to stand.

Jensen grabs his camera bag out of his room, then hurries to catch up without a lick of shame that Jared’s long legs carry him quickly down the street. Jensen may be slow in letting himself relax in Paradise, but he’s fast when he gets going, and he matches Jared’s strides once they’re on the street. 

They head to _Dingy Dick’s_ to get Jared’s tow truck, which is parked right alongside the Ford F-100. Richard is, once again, eating instead of working, and Briana is there, too. She’s holding a Styrofoam takeout container of eggs, hash browns, and biscuits that he’s eating out of, moaning loudly with every bite. 

“Oh, baby, you’re so good to me,” he says with his mouth full.

Briana smiles and wipes the corner of his lips with a paper napkin, then leans in to kiss the very spot. “Only the best for my sugar.”

Jensen stops abruptly to watch the scene, utterly shocked that these two lovebirds are going on like this. He’s not sure he can get past the thought of this blonde beauty matching up with the greasy handlebar-mustached mechanic. 

“Heya fellas!” Briana calls out a moment later. “Whatcha all up to today?”

Jared immediately gets into the driver’s seat and revs the tow truck to life. “Gonna give Jensen a tour of Paradise.”

“Gonna be a quick tour,” Richard laughs. He takes another big forkful of hash browns, pieces sticking to his beard and mustache. “You should take him out to your lands. Let him see something real special.”

Jensen’s interest is piqued at the thought of _lands_ , a big spread that Jared has somewhere outside of Paradise. The wonder is fleeting as Briana’s shiny, red-painted lips spread wide with delight. 

“Yeah, let him see that special thing in your pants.” She then rocks her hips with a dirty grin. 

Jared honks the horn twice and backs out into the street, and Jensen hurries to follow, to exit this conversation. Teasing with Jared is fun, but there’s something unsettling about Briana’s bold comment, along with Richard’s wolf whistle singing out loudly from the garage. 

Jared laughs and waves back at the garage once Jensen is up in the passenger seat. He slaps Jensen’s knee, squeezes a little, and pats again before getting both hands on the wheel and driving forward. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna do any of those things. I’ll be perfectly mature and play tour guide.”

There’s a tiny thread of disappointment that Jensen buries deep. He focuses instead on the view of the town thinning out to small houses dotting every other lot, if even that, until they’re surrounded by flat grassy fields. Not unlike the one Jensen had been stuck in when he first saw this tow truck.

And just like that first day, the wind whips through the open windows, and Jensen’s sunglasses shield the glare of the sun ahead of them. The landscape presents them with the greenest of grass rising up from the ground and a vibrant blue sky full of puffy white clouds, like something Jensen’s only seen in the movies. Not long into the ride, he has Jared pull over so he can catch it all with his camera. 

While Jensen clicks away, Jared idly chats about the town. Mentions that hard rains had cleared out many of the farms in the area, and most folks left for other pastures. Crops couldn’t keep up with the heavy showers, even now when the land is recovering. Says most people in town don’t know a thing about farming, yet have plenty of the same values tattooed on their skin … hard work, decency, kinship to keep Paradise thriving using the values of previous generations. 

Jared seems to lose himself in the stories, talking about the beauty of old Americana and being a part of a greater spirit. He continues staring out beyond any spot Jensen can see. That just gives Jensen the opportunity to take his picture and capture the softness of a man so unabashedly proud of his hometown. 

Once he’s done talking, Jared turns to the camera and smiles. He leans back against the hood of the truck, lifts his sunglasses into his hair, and sets his twinkling eyes on Jensen. “What about you?”

Jensen takes a few more pictures before lowering the camera. He comes to rest next to Jared and watches the easy sway of tall grass taken by the wind. “It’s charming, for sure.”

“But you still think it’s a little weird.”

With a small nod, Jensen admits, “I grew up in a small town. Something a lot like this, though with plenty more people. Plenty of people who were a lot less kind than you all have been so far.”

“So far?” Jared asks slowly.

Jensen clears his throat against the thoughts spinning in his head. He tries to express it the best way he can. “I’ve found that sometimes you can’t trust what people want you to see. There’s often more beneath the surface that they’re hiding.”

Pursing his lips, Jared nods and looks ahead. “Sounds like you’re carrying a whole lotta baggage on your back.”

Now he laughs, maybe at himself for being so transparent. “Yeah, you could say that. That small town I came from had a whole lot of niceties on the surface. But it wasn’t the best place to stick around.”

“When’d you leave?”

“Right after high school.”

“For college?” Jared asks. 

“Nah, I never went to college.” He clears his throat against the sliver of shame that rises. “What about you?”

“So, what’ve you been doing with yourself since leaving that town?”

A strained chuckle, Jensen kicks at the dirt. “Not letting me get away with that subject change, I see.”

“Not hardly.” Jared softly smiles at him, bumps their shoulders together. “It’d be nice to know how you built that tough wall you put up.”

He sighs and settles more comfortably so he can stretch his back over the curve of the truck’s hood. “My folks had their own idea of who I should be, or how we should grow up. And I … had a different plan.”

“Were you successful?”

Jensen glances over. “With what?”

“With your plan. Did you do what you wanted to do?”

Another tight laugh. “Not quite. I mean, I got out of town, but I haven’t fulfilled big-time dreams or anything.”

“If you did fulfill these big dreams, what would that look like?”

Jensen considers him, really takes the time to wonder where these thoughtful questions are coming from.

Jared spreads his arms out with a sweet smile. “If you could have anything go your way and put your name up in lights … what would it be for?”

“I like taking pictures,” he answers with a motion of his camera.

With a smirk, Jared nods. “I can tell.”

“Wouldn’t mind having some pictures go somewhere nice,” Jensen admits, then finds his mouth moving faster than he’d planned, letting it all out. “For them to mean something to someone. Money is nice, sure, but sometimes it’s just about knowing people are feeling what you’ve shot, what you find. That they see what I see, the stories these pictures tell, and what it means to me.”

Jared grins and elbows him. “Then let’s find you some more stories!” He’s rounding the front of the truck to get back inside, and Jensen blinks at the abrupt change in mood. “You comin’ or what, Jen?”

“It’s Jens—” he stops before he can get his full name out and shakes his head. “Yes sir,” he whispers as he turns around to get back into the passenger seat. 

 

*** 

 

Along the journey, Jensen is surprised when his phone chirps. Once, twice, then a dozen times in succession. The screen lights up with notifications, and he has two beautiful bars of service. 

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop,” Jensen yells, flinging his arm out across Jared’s chest. 

Jared’s hand comes up to Jensen’s as he slams on the brakes and steers to the shoulder. “What? What’s going on?” he asks frantically.

Jensen certainly registers Jared holding his hand to his own chest, and he slowly withdraws it, trying like hell to not care about the casual touch. He focuses back on his phone. Scooting up in the seat, Jensen’s thumbs fly across the touch screen and he hums with excitement. “I have service. Thank the Lord, _I HAVE SERVICE!_ ”

Jared smiles fondly and parks the car properly as Jensen gets to his emails. “Small miracles come in all sorts of packages.”

Partly distracted by scanning all the messages that have been waiting for him, Jensen asks, “Which uncle said that?”

“None of them.” A second later, Jared mumbles, “At least I don’t think they did.”

“I’m shocked.” Jensen smirks at Jared’s low laugh. 

Jared turns the radio on, keeps it low, and they sit in a comfortable quiet between them as Jensen fires off a few dozen emails to straighten up the mess at work. 

Jensen is delighted when Sheppard is quick to respond, and they go back and forth for a bit until the stuffy artist bends back to their original agreements. He still has to give in to a few specific demands, but he calls it a victory and thinks about how to celebrate. 

“Gotta be something good in town we can do,” Jensen suggests. “I owe you one.”

Jared nods. “Tonight’s the Peach Party.”

Jensen dares to fill in the holes: “And that is … a party. For peaches.”

“Only the juiciest around,” Jared insists, with his eyebrow arched. 

Narrowing his eyes, Jensen thinks through a million responses, yet chooses to smack Jared on the arm before pointing at the road. “Let’s keep going. Surely there’re more stories I can find out here.”

 

*** 

 

They return to the Inn just in time for a new batch of Mrs. G.’s white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies to come out of the oven. In the garden with glasses of tea and a plate of cookies, Jensen shows Mrs. G. some of the photos on his camera. She clicks through the buttons and squints at the screen; he has a feeling she can’t see a damned thing and just keeps looking at the same two photos over and over again. 

Still, she gushes, “Oh, Jensen, darling, these are so beautiful. You have such a wonderful eye for our town.”

He chuckles because most of the pictures are from the trip they took far out of town. He thanks her anyway, unable to correct the sweet lady. 

After Jared downs half the cookies, he rises from his seat and insists he has to get to Briana’s to help with something in her kitchen. 

“Honey, why don’t you take Jensen with you?” Mrs. G. suggests. “Surely he can offer you a hand.”

Jared smirks. “Sure. Jensen? You want to give me a hand?”

Jensen bites his lower lip. It seems that Jared rather enjoys teasing him in situations where he can’t properly respond. Not with sweet Mrs. G. right there. “Yeah, sure. I can give you a hand.”

At Briana’s diner, Jared fiddles in the kitchen with the oven. Jensen’s not sure how he can help, so he heads back out front and sits at the counter. There aren’t many people in for the middle of the afternoon, meaning Briana can join him. She pours them both a cup of coffee, then puts a paper in front of him. 

“How good are you with words?”

Jensen eyes her. “Okay, I guess?” Then he smiles when he sees the crossword puzzle staring back at him. 

She’s got one as well and puts her hand out to shake. “First one to finish washes dishes.”

Jensen laughs and takes her hand. “You don’t have a dishwasher?”

“He’s presently fixing the gas line to the oven.”

“ _Jared_ is your dishwasher?”

“Someone call my name?” Jared asks, popping into view from the kitchen. 

Jensen shakes his head. “What _don’t_ you do around here?”

“One of these days, you’ll find out.” He winks, then is gone from sight. 

“Deal?” Briana asks, not the least bit distracted by the side conversation, totally focused on this little game. 

Jensen squeezes and shakes her hand. “You got it.”

“Okay, on three … ”

He starts reading the first clue before she finishes counting, yet finds that doesn’t even help, and he’s elbow deep in dirty dish water twenty minutes later. 

 

*** 

 

After dinner, Jensen escorts Mrs. G. to the Peach Party. He asks her how, and why, there are so many celebrations this week, and she pats his cheek with a sweet smile. 

“Silly boy. There’s a party every day!”

“How is that possible?” he asks, trying to keep his voice from rising to a shrill. “Don’t you run out of topics?”

“In Paradise, everything is a celebration.”

Soon enough, she abandons him to socialize. Jensen doesn’t mind too much; he spends time behind his camera cataloging the handful of pop-up stands selling peaches, pears, and a host of other fruits. He’s not sure how that all fits into the peach theme; he’s not really that surprised, though. 

Briana and Richard man their own stand, with Rich calling out all sorts of dirty jokes about his bananas, inviting folks to unwrap the skin and taste how ripe and firm his fruit is. 

Briana laughs through it all, even tries to top him. She gets a few good zingers in, and Jensen smiles as he takes their picture … takes quite a number of the outwardly mismatched couple. Maybe he’s starting to see how they sync up. 

“Jensen, have you met Father Murray?”

Jensen turns to Jared, his camera still firmly in his grip, though once he sees the other man, he thinks he might drop it. “You’re …”

It’s Officer Murray. This time, however, his uniform lacks any of the badges or pins. The dark pants and shirt are the same. Only, the collar is closed with a white band around his neck. The man reaches for Jensen’s free hand, now dropping from its hold on the camera, shakes, and bows his head. “Good evening, my son.”

His tone is much deeper and almost honorable. Much different than the authority he proclaimed when Jensen first met him. 

“We are so glad to have you joining us on this occasion,” he says with another bow of his head.

Jensen can’t speak; he lets Officer … Father … Murray shake his hand, all while staring at Jared. 

“What’s wrong?” Jared asks with a furrowed brow.

“This is the priest,” Jensen says, though he really means it as a question.

“This is the honorable Reverend Michael Murray. He leads Sunday services at the church.”

Jensen points a thumb at the man. “This is the nut job who gave me a ticket for jaywalking.”

“It’s a serious offense,” Murray says at the same time Jared asks, “You jaywalked?” with horror. 

He sighs and prepares his defense. “People do it all the time, all over the country!”

“Not here,” Murray points out. “Paradise is much more principled than the rest of the country.”

“Seriously?” Jensen asks him, then turns to Jared and repeats himself. “This is serious?”

Jared nods gravely as Murray continues. “If only you had heeded my warning, then you could have gotten off with a slap on the wrist.”

“What warning?”

“When I blew you.”

Jensen gapes at the officer … priest. “You could definitely say it a different way.”

Murray resettles himself and becomes more like the man Jensen met out on the streets. An overly sensitive and wary cop. “I blew you and you just kept on going. Couldn’t even stop moving. I blew you numerous times.”

Jared’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead, and Jensen sputters to stop the whole thing. “Alright, okay, I get it. I broke the law, you blew your whistle, and I got a ticket. Are we done now?”

Jared continues to look semi-horrified and amused at the same time, while Murray returns to his more divine state. “Are you enjoying the Peach Party? You should try some of Ms. Connell’s apricots.”

Jensen blinks as he attempts to right himself from the immediate about-face. 

“They are absolutely heavenly.” A second later, Murray relaxes and winks. “If I do say so myself.”

“Why are there apricots at a peach fest?” Jensen asks, immediately regretting it. “Or pears or bananas?”

“Well, peaches are quite like apricots.”

“Not really. They’re a whole ‘nother fruit. Have their own name and everything.” He kicks himself for bothering to continue down this route, though he feels rather committed to proving this one point. 

Murray shares a look with Jared, then returns to his saintly demeanor. “Here in Paradise, we do our best to be as inclusive as possible. We welcome fruits of all shapes and sizes here.”

Despite his immediate need to argue, Jensen accepts that rather well. He isn’t about to fight for exclusivity, not when he comes from one of the most the diverse cities in the country. 

Then Murray winks at Jared. “Isn’t that right, Jared?”

Jared simply smiles without giving anything away. But Jensen thinks enough has been said. The priest may know Jared’s intimate secrets from regular confessions; still, Jensen is amazed it would be acknowledged in the light of day. 

Clearing his throat, Murray nods to them both. “Do enjoy yourselves gentlemen. It is one of our best events after all.”

As the man leaves, Jensen stares at Jared. With wide eyes, he asks, “That’s your priest.”

“Father Murray is popular in Paradise.”

“ _That guy_ is your priest. How?”

Jared shrugs. “He volunteered.”

“Well, when you put it that way …” Jensen widens his eyes, then makes a show of rolling them. 

“Oh, don’t be like that. Father Murray is a very dedicated man of faith.”

“And what kind of faith is that?”

“Any kind. Are you not a believer?”

Jensen wonders if this is it … the very moment that Jared finally shows his true colors. Maybe this whole town is a cult trying to recruit Jensen, willing to save him from whatever terrible life could be waiting for him if he doesn’t accept whatever Father Murray is selling. 

“My Uncle George used to say, ‘you just got to wait, because you gotta have faith.’”

Now he stares back with the greatest of skepticism. “Jared.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have an Uncle George.”

“Sure I do!”

Jensen laughs and shakes his head as he looks around them, suddenly glad that Jared’s true colors are less about cultish devotion and more about quoting random songs with terrible attribution. Again.

Jared continues, “He always said, ‘you need someone to hold you, but you gotta wait for something more. Gotta have faith.’”

Jensen dares to watch Jared out of the corner of his eye. 

Holding out in silence, Jared bites the corner of his mouth. A dimple appears, and Jensen begins to smile at the devilish look in Jared’s eyes. Especially as he softly murmurs, “Faith, faith, faith.”

“Jared!” Jensen shouts, laughing through the ludicrousness. 

“Yes, you gotta have faith,” Jared continues, now laughing along with Jensen. 

“You’re such an idiot,” he mumbles, but finds himself absolutely charmed by the idiocy.


	5. Chapter 5

DAY FIVE

Jensen spends the morning exploring the streets and stopping by _Dingy Dick’s_ to check on the car and Richard—make sure both are still there and in one piece (or relatively, as far as Richard goes). 

He roams neighborhoods within walking distance for a signal, and while it’s spotty and unreliable, he can at least read a few emails and send a few replies. Samantha and Jeff are hesitantly positive to the movement he’s making with Sheppard. He even confirms with Jason that he’s still there and surviving each day. The brief snippets of service offer him some semblance of a connection to New York.

It seems like his time in Paradise is looking up.

In the afternoon, he settles in at Briana’s. They race through another crossword puzzle. Now that he knows what he’s up against, he stays alert and efficient as he works through the clues, skipping any that aren’t utterly obvious until he can fill in a few other letters in other directions. 

The place fills up for dinner, and Briana doesn’t say a word when she slides a plate of the meatloaf special in front of him. Winks and moves on to another guest further down the counter. 

Kim settles next to him, Brock and Colin on her other side. She rattles on throughout dinner about the boys’ softball game that weekend, how practice has muddied them up when they both insisted on sliding into pretty much every base. Jensen smiles through her stories, especially when she complains at the boys for all the dust they’re carrying back and forth from the dessert cooler at the end of the counter. 

Before he realizes it, the place is clearing out and it’s after hours. Even with the late evening sun still lighting up the town, Briana calls it quits after starting so early in the morning. She sits down beside him with a tired sigh, hair all fussed up in a top knot and apron full of food stains from serving a few dozen patrons in just two hours. 

“You look exhausted,” he commiserates. “I should head out.”

She leans over the counter and comes back with a bottle of whiskey. “I have a better idea.”

Jensen grins and sits up straight. “I like yours, for sure.”

She pours them each half a mug of the amber liquor. It warms him deep in his belly, and he savors the oaky flavor on his tongue. 

“So, what’s your story?” he asks. “What brought you to Paradise?”

Briana takes a long sip, holds the mug in her hands and rests it against her lip as she thinks. 

He immediately backpedals. “If you don’t want to talk about—”

“I was a singer. Wanted to be on Broadway.” She wistfully smiles, eyes glazing over as she falls back into her past. “Was heading there, about five or six years ago. I came through town looking for gas, maybe a place to get a snack, and I just never left.”

Jensen watches her, hears the softness in her voice. “Just like that?”

She looks at him, eyes bright and shiny, smile serene. “Just like that. Paradise has its way with things. I just felt … _good_ when I was here. And I met Richard soon after, and here we are. Things just kinda fit here.”

“Speaking of Richard,” Jensen starts, remembering his odd introduction to the man, back when Jared first brought him to town. “Now this is gonna sound weird,” he chuckles, “But, on my first day here, Mrs. G. made it sound like Richard was … _gone._ ”

Briana nods. “Oh, yeah, he left us for a bit.”

Jensen stares, waiting for her to continue that thought. 

She doesn’t, just sips more whiskey. 

He blinks and opens his mouth a few times while considering his follow up question. “But like, she made it sound like … he was _really_ gone.”

“Yep. Richard left us a few weeks ago. I missed him something fierce. But he came back.”

“Can you please clarify?” Jensen furrows his eyebrow. “ _Please_.”

Now she laughs and refills both of their mugs. “He had to head over to Brown County to get some parts. He only does that once or twice a year, so it’s quite the event. Most folks stick around here. Mrs. G. sometimes gets a bit dramatic when someone heads out.”

“Yeah, I bet she does,” he chuckles. “She surely made it sound like he was dead.”

“Oh, yeah. That, too.”

Jensen blinks at her until she breaks, snickering and pushing him away. 

“You’re so gullible!” Briana cries out with a bright smile. 

The front door swings open, bell jangling merrily, and Jensen’s gullible sensibilities perk up when he sees Jared entering the diner. Jensen hasn’t seen Jared all day, having been on the lookout for him all throughout town. 

_Just curious_ , Jensen had told himself while wondering what Jared had been up to. What other businesses he was visiting to fix this or that. 

Once Jared disappears to the back, Jensen fixes his gaze on his mug. There’s an odd sense of disappointment that Jared isn’t sticking around with him and Briana, but has instead gone right to his next task. Jensen thinks about downing the rest of his drink, or just heading back to the Inn. That’s when it strikes him. “I feel like I’m cheating on Mrs. G,” he admits with only a small dash of guilt.

“You’ll get used to that. How about some cake for your feelings?” She sits up and shouts, “Jared? You want some cake?”

“You betcha!” he calls back. 

Jensen groans, then winces when he looks at the circulating pie dishes in the cooler in the corner. 

“I know that sound,” she coos at him. “You’re eying my pies.”

“That sounds so dirty.”

“And I love it,” she grins. “They’re all big and beautiful, just like me. You can’t go wrong with whatever you pick.”

Jensen spins on the stool and watches as she saunters over to the cooler and waves her hands up and around the glass case like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. Surely, there can’t be any room left in his stomach. Still, it’s so tempting when she starts running off all the sweets stacked together. And it’s all homemade. 

“Strawberry rhubarb, golden apple crisp, chocolate cream, banana cream, German chocolate—” 

“That’s not a pie,” he argues.

“You tell her,” Jared says, leaning in the kitchen doorway. 

Jensen smirks at Jared for confirmation of the joke. And a bit for the cool way Jared is watching him, or just for Jared’s appearance.

Jared offers a small smile and Jensen doesn’t understand why that stalls him. While Briana talks, Jensen keeps glancing back and wondering why he even cares about the way Jared is watching him. Like the guy has been for days. Something hopeful blooms deep in his bones, and for the first time in a long time, Jensen starts to consider what that could really mean for as little time as he has here.

“Key lime, peanut butter dream, Oreo, white chocolate and raspberry …”

Jensen holds his stomach as he imagines it stretching beyond what’s physically possible, yet has to ask. “Peanut butter dream?”

Briana slinks closer, hips swaying to the beat, and she ticks all the ingredients off on her fingers. “Peanut butter, heavy whipping cream, caramel, almonds …”

“Oh God, no, please stop,” he groans, holding tighter around his belly. “I’m going to burst just thinking about it.”

“Okay, okay,” she agrees with sugar in her tone. She settles down on the stool next to him and taps his nose. “How about my famous peaches and cream?”

He whimpers at the thought.

She saunters over and leans in close. Licks her lips and whispers, “Fresh from the party last night.”

Jensen is nodding before he can stop himself. “Okay, yes.”

Briana brings him a slice, cut wider than he expected, set in the middle of a wide plate. She adds streaks of caramel in a quick, artful design that boasts of her talents far more than this diner really does. 

Jensen slips his fork into the crisp, flaky crust, sinks the tines into the soft, sugary sweet filling. He’s got himself a healthy serving of the pie, and he salivates at the picture-perfect thickness of the fruit stacked between two layers of buttery goodness.

Once he’s got it all in his mouth, he can only describe it as orgasmic. A dark, needy moan rises from deep in his chest as he chews. When the peaches melt on his tongue, he’s certain he’s reached heavenly heights, as his taste buds sing and his stomach rumbles with satisfaction.

It takes a bit to realize how obscene it is when he runs his tongue across the fork to get every drop of cinnamony syrup off the tines before diving right back into the piece of pie. 

The whole scene repeats itself as Jensen all but gets off on the delicateness of the peach, the smoky depths of cinnamon, and the flawless confection of crust. About halfway in, he realizes Jared is staring, wide-eyed, eyebrows hefted high on his forehead. Briana is leaning across the counter with a satisfied, lazy grin as she watches with her chin in hand. 

“I did not know men made noises like that,” she murmurs, then licks at the corner of her hot pink lips. 

Jared clears his throat and smacks the towel in his hand, breaking the whole moment. 

Jensen only feels a smidge of embarrassment. Days ago, he surely would have run away like he did when Mrs. G. imagined the found charger was there to rev up libidos rather than cell phones. Then there’s a bit of perverse delight in getting under Jared’s skin for once. 

He returns Briana’s languid look. “I’ll make any noise you like, so long as there’s peaches.”

Jared coughs while Briana is fully amused and draws the pad of her middle finger through the side of the pie filling. 

She sucks at the syrup, taking her time to clear her finger of all the sugar. “Are you from Georgia, sweetheart?”

Jensen winks. “No. But I am as sweet and satisfying as this pie.”

“Oh honey, we know.” Briana winks then sighs happily. “We know.”

“Who’s we?” he mumbles around another fork-full of pie. 

Briana thumbs over her shoulder. “This big lug.”

“Am I that obvious?” Jared asks with a chuckle.

Jensen swallows roughly around the dessert. Says, “Yeah,” as Briana enthusiastically yells, “Hell yes, you are.”

Briana glances around her diner, then smacks the counter. “Oh, shoot! I forgot about Mushroom Mania!”

“Mushroom what?”

“Mania!” she insists. 

Jared follows up with the easy explanation, “Kinda like last night, but with mushrooms.”

Briana flits her eyebrows playfully. “It’s always fun when you find Misha’s special mushrooms.” She looks over her shoulder to Jared. “You coming, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I’ll pop on by.” Jared lifts an eyebrow with interest to Jensen. “You up for another festival?”

The heft of his dinner, dessert, and the whiskey weighs him down now. His body feels loose and warm, but he thinks he’d rather turn in for the night. It’s been a long day spent traipsing around—two days in row, in fact. 

Still, he can’t argue when Jared is looking at him with that kind of hope and interest. 

“Yeah, sure. We can _pop on by_.”

He’ll ignore, for now, how wide Jared grins. And he’ll ignore how easy it was to say _we_.

  



	6. Chapter 6

DAY SIX

Jensen wakes with sun streaming in through the window, curtains pulled back to welcome the morning. His mind drifts back to last night when Jared walked him back to the inn after _Mushroom Mania_. 

The event was just as eccentric as previous ones, and hosted by Misha Collins, who was showing off a large garden taking up half his backyard. Folks gathered around the crops to admire his collection of tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs, and the guest of honor: a large variety of mushrooms. Many other guests spilled out onto his front lawn, most holding freshly mixed mojitos featuring Misha’s homegrown mint. 

Jensen had quite a few, enjoying the crisp, refreshing drink, so he’s not sure what all happened after Misha announced they were out of rum and switching to Moscow mules with vodka. 

He does recall cutting himself off at that point. He also recalls Jared offering, quite formally, to escort him back to the inn once the party died down. They’d walked quite close together, bumping shoulders and hands, on a long stroll through town. 

There’d been an awkward moment as Jensen took the first few steps and suddenly spun around as he thought about kissing Jared, _wanting_ to feel that mouth against his own. Instead, Jared had bowed his head with a solemn _good night, Jensen_ and left.

In his room, Jensen spent some time staring out the window and watching Paradise sleep under a full moon. 

He gets out of bed this morning and does the same, this time admiring the town waking up under the bright sun. From this height, he can see Kim and her boys walking down Main Street and entering the diner for breakfast, spots Richard tossing the large garage door up and getting the F-100 up on a lift to inspect the undercarriage, then watches a particularly tall man with a nice head of hair come down the street, heading for the inn. 

Jensen gently smiles as Jared swiftly takes the stairs. The sound of the front door opening echoes softly up to this floor, and that recognizable voice greets Mrs. G. downstairs. 

Supplying him with a solid excuse to go downstairs, his stomach grumbles and his brain cries out for coffee. 

The rest of the morning is lost to a long breakfast with Jared and Mrs. G., this time out in the garden with the sounds of the birds joining their voices. 

 

*** 

 

“What’re your plans today, Jensen?” Mrs. G. asks over a third cup of coffee.

Breakfast has long been cleared away, thanks to all-around, perfectly nice guy Jared, and the three are now relaxing with the sun rising higher in the sky.

“You know, I found a spot where I can get cell service,” Jensen begins. “I was gonna head over there and get a few things done for work.”

“Really?” Mrs. G. asks. “Seems as if news like that would’ve gotten around.”

“News about the cell service or my work?”

“Both,” Jared jokes with a wink at Jensen.

She turns to Jared. “And what about you, sweetheart?” 

“I’ve got a few things I could be doing,” he replies, fidgeting with his mug.

“Like what?” Mrs. G. prods, smiling in curiosity. 

Jared glances at Jensen for only a moment before answering her. “I was gonna check with Richard. He’s waiting on parts for the garage.”

Jensen sits up in his chair, simultaneously excited about progress on the truck and frustrated at the reminder that the easy living of Paradise will come to a close. 

“Don’t wanna put you out for too much longer,” Jared tells him, yet only offers a quick look before taking a sip of coffee. 

“Yeah, of course not,” Jensen concedes with as much strength as he can. He’s sure there isn’t much confidence in his voice, though. 

Suddenly, he doesn’t care much for finishing his coffee. There’s a sour taste left in his mouth. 

And he’s becoming more bothered the longer the three of them sit here as if nothing has changed. It isn’t helped when Mrs. G. opens another conversation with Jared about the festival later that night. 

Jensen pushes his chair back and excuses himself. Barely meets either’s gaze when he insists he should check his email, then he’s gone.

 

*** 

 

He finds a faded bench further down the block where he has sometimes lucked out with cell service. It’s far from comfortable with sun-baked metal slats to sit on, but he considers it an upgrade from staying at the inn and lamenting his sudden apathy about heading back to New York City.

Checking in with Samantha, Jensen hears that most of the contracts are close to being finalized with Jensen’s efforts. He’s smiling by the end of that call, knowing that his bartering has paid off, even if he was a few days late to the mess. More emails are exchanged with Sheppard, and eventually the man’s assistant, to come to an agreement on the artist’s positioning at the gallery. Another call to Samantha, and the best solution is to grant Sheppard a more prominent place in the Fall show to appease him for now. 

One more email tells Beaver all is going well, though big-city traffic slows him down as he crosses the Midwest. Jensen caps off the lies with a promise that the truck is holding up. It’s nerve-wracking when he hits send, as if the old man will see right through the email and know Jensen’s been spending the last week playing around Paradise. 

He connects with Jason via text in anticipation of getting back home, even setting up a bar night to catch up and share all the exploits of this trip. 

Days ago, Jensen had imagined the dramatic retelling of this story starring a cast of unbelievable caricatures. Today, his perspective is skewed. Paradise is an old, sleepy town with the warmth of what he wishes his childhood could have been. People look out for each other, step in to help without hesitation or expectations for payment, and they truly rely on the simple pleasures this place offers them. 

He suddenly thinks it’s not just his hometown he’s comparing to Paradise, but New York City. The place he’s called home for fifteen years, yet he’s just one dot among millions. In Paradise, folks know his name, far more than back in the city, and there’s genuine care when they ask him how he’s doing, what he plans for his days, or even how he’s enjoying their little community. 

Despite the turn in his mood, if someone asked him those questions right now, he knows he’d tell them the truth: he’s enjoying every single bit of it. 

 

*

 

Back downtown, Jensen stops in at the garage. It’s more than a bit awkward to see Jared there, and it’s obvious that Jared feels the same. Jensen waves at them then asks about the truck. 

“The part came in today!” Richard exclaims. “I can finally get your baby up and running!”

 _It’s not my baby,_ Jensen thinks about replying, chuckling instead. “That’s great. How long will it take?”

Richard wipes his grimy hands across the front of his coveralls, adding more streaks to the already filthy clothing. “Maybe another two or three days. Jared, here, has to go pick up the part in Bells Pond, then I can start tomorrow.”

Jensen lifts his eyebrows in surprise, and maybe pleasure. There are a few more days to spend in Paradise; he doesn’t have to pack up and leave immediately. 

“Well,” he says with a growing smile, “that all sounds good. Glad to hear it.” Looking right at Jared, he adds, “Sounds like I still got a little time here.”

It takes a few seconds for Jared to catch on to that, but when he does, his lips curve happily and dimples appear in his cheeks. 

“You want some company to Bells Pond?” Jensen offers. 

Jared nods quickly. “Definitely.”

They sink into a strange silence once they’re in the truck and heading out of town. It’s tense for completely different reasons now, as they each chance quick glances at one another. 

“You drive out here often?” Jensen asks, lacking a better topic of conversation. 

Jared keeps his eyes on the road, but Jensen can tell that he’s attuned to the question. “Yeah. I come out here every few weeks for the post office. A lot of folks, especially the businesses, have boxes there.”

“That’s mighty nice of you.”

“I try,” Jared responds with a shrug. 

“You help out a lot of people in Paradise,” Jensen says. He thinks about Mrs. G.’s comment about how lovely Jared is for doing so much for everyone without asking for anything in return. “Seems like you do a lot around town, but no one ever pays you.” 

Jared looks over, and Jensen offers a smile to show he means no ill will. 

“I’m just curious,” Jensen continues, “how do you get by if you don’t have a job? Where do you live?”

Now Jared chuckles, licks his lips, and curls his fingers around the top of the steering wheel. “It’s not that exciting.”

Jensen sits up straight and watches Jared carefully. He’s up for the challenge. “Try me.”

“I live at my parents’ house.”

His eyes widen at that. “You live with your parents?”

Jared sucks in a long breath. “No. It’s their house. They’re not … around anymore.”

Jensen immediately bites his tongue for attempting to mock Jared, especially when they guy is opening up in this way. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he mumbles with a sideways glance at Jensen before focusing on the long road ahead of them. “They had an accident on a road trip to Mount Rushmore.”

“I’m so sorr—”

“Don’t be,” Jared insists. “I know, and it’s okay. It was a while ago.”

Jensen is afraid to ask, yet the door is open, and he figures it’s his best chance to ask: “Is that why you don’t leave Paradise?”

Jared turns towards the open window and the breeze pushes his hair off his face. Jensen regrets having travelled down this trail for the sake of conversation, even when he admires Jared’s profile, the stillness in his face when he prepares his answer. Jared finally replies, “My parents made some good choices with their money. And when they … well, after … they left it to me. That’s why I don’t have to really work. I know I could leave, probably go anywhere. But at the same time, this town helped me when I needed it. So, I’m returning the favor.”

“You’re amazing,” Jensen murmurs before he realizes the words have come out. He also realizes that he absolutely means it.

Shaking his head, Jared tries to grin at Jensen, but Jensen can see a bit of tension in the line of his jaw. “You’re the amazing one. Going off to New York and making something more for yourself. I could never do that.”

“It’s just what I needed at the time,” Jensen admits. He wonders if it’s what he needs now. Maybe there’s something else out there for him, like living at a slower pace, taking time to enjoy the simple things that make people smile. 

“Hey, look at that,” Jared says suddenly, pointing to swerving tire tracks along the dusty shoulder on the left side of the road. 

Jensen looks across the way and out the back window once they’ve passed the spot Jared’s excited about. “What was it?”

“That’s where I found ya.”

He looks at Jared and finds softness in those bright eyes and a small tilt to his smile. 

What was a terrible day of being stranded without the power to do anything on his own has turned into an enchanting week in Paradise. And it’s all come full circle with a truly unremarkable set of tire tracks.

He thinks that the simplest things make Jared absolutely beautiful.

 

*** 

 

At the festival, Jared stacks hot dogs on a plate that they end up sharing while leaning against Father Murray’s garage. 

The rest of the expansive lawn holds the partygoers, picnic tables, and benches, as well as a few small lawn games. Jensen had backed up to this spot while watching Briana and Rich battle one another in bocce ball. Colin and Brock become absorbed in bean bag toss until there’s a dispute over points and Colin whips a quick succession of bags at his brother. 

Soon enough, they’re wrestling on the ground and Kim is scolding them at her typical high-decibel shouts. 

Jensen continues to watch in amusement as Jared comes around with his haul, as well as two cans of beer. They eat in comfortable silence, only stopping when that damned squirrel comes around again. It stops a few feet in front of them, resting back with its front paws rubbing together. Jensen tosses a few pieces from his hot dog bun for it to eat. 

“See,” he motions to the critter, “I’ve made friends here.”

“So now you have two,” Jared replies before taking a giant bite of a hot dog. 

“That’s pretty cold.”

Jared shrugs. “Okay, three.” Then he smirks and hip-checks Jensen. “Have you named it yet?”

“Considering it … maybe Ross.”

“Why Ross?”

“That’s my middle name.”

“Look at you,” Jared nods with an impressed expression lighting up his face, “sharing and stuff. It’s like we broke the levee today.”

Jensen shakes his head. “Could say the same for you. Finally let me in on the secret of Jared.”

“And what’s it look like?”

“It looks …” Jensen tapers off as he realizes he doesn’t want to joke here. He wants to be authentic and honest. Looking Jared right in the eyes, he replies, “It’s really good.”

Jared licks his upper lip, eyes only briefly leaving Jensen’s, then coming back to share a long look. “You ever think about getting back to the start?”

Jensen furrows his brow. “How so?”

“Like your childhood. Small town, close-knit people.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Jensen looks away, can’t manage to face Jared while he considers that. For as much as they’ve chipped away at the surface, Jensen isn’t prepared to go much further into his past. 

He realizes that facing the companionship and revelry of Paradise’s residents while he thinks doesn’t help either. 

“Maybe, sometimes, you wish you could have that again. Not then, but now?” Jared ducks his head away, as if he realizes that the add-on to his statement doesn’t lessen the blow. Even when he tried. 

“My parents were good people, but it’s been tough talking to them.”

“What would you talk to them about?”

With a shrug, Jensen dances around the answers. He hasn’t said much of this aloud in years, stowing it away in the dark recesses along with the rest of his high school memories. 

“What do you want them to know about you?”

The surprising change in question startles Jensen. He quickly shifts toward Jared and stares at him, wondering where such thoughtful questions are coming from. 

“What do you want anyone to know about you?” Now Jared is watching intently, eyelids hanging low, pupils dark and focused right on Jensen. 

Jensen finds himself leaning closer with his shoulder pressed against the metal siding. Following a metallic creak, he curses as he spots rust stains on his t-shirt. 

Jared chuckles lightly while brushing at the new stain. “Nothing a little wash won’t help.”

It’s all innocent, surely, but Jensen is now laser-focused on the slow stroke of Jared’s long fingers, so very long, over his arm. On the smooth warmth that sinks into the shirt, clinging tight to let Jensen track every centimeter Jared has now touched. 

Suddenly, he wants set up shop and stay here, in this precise moment, on this very night. In this very town. Where the only care in his mind is when he’ll do laundry and what kind of cookies Mrs. G. will make. Not when he’ll get paid, where he can buy affordable groceries, or how long he has to live life like this.

Falling deeper into the conversation, Jensen blurts out, “I’d want them to know that I’m different now. But still normal. Still their son.”

“You’ll always be their son.” After a moment, Jared softly smiles. “That’s the first thing I learned when I came out. Whether they wanted to know it or not, I’d still be me.”

Jensen knew Jared was gay, knew they were flirting all this time they’ve been getting to know each other. Now, hearing it aloud makes it too real. Too close. Yet not enough, as Jensen is inching closer before he realizes it. 

“And what about friends?” Jensen murmurs, thinking of the other partygoers going on with their celebrations, no doubt curious about Jared and Jensen standing so close together, moving even closer. “And neighbors? Coworkers?”

“Another great part of this town?” Jared’s eyes nearly twinkle in the moonlight as his smile broadens. “Everyone’s a little bit different.”

Gulping hard, Jensen acknowledges that his feet are heavy as lead and his knees are locked in tight. There’s no way his body would let him move away now, not when Jared inches nearer, and Jensen can see every tiny hair scuffing up the artfully shaped jawline, the later than five o’clock shadow that draws attention to Jared’s pink lips. 

Jensen licks his own lips as he stares at Jared’s mouth, contemplates leaping forward. Or, maybe just running away. Anything to move past this purgatory of almost-but-not-quite when it comes to following the yearnings that have been building these last few days.

The only argument he can come up with falls flat when there isn’t much energy to his voice. “What about everyone here?”

“What about them?”

“They’re probably watching.”

Jared looks off to the side, all while Jensen is too mesmerized with his profile to bother moving. Now he’s characterizing the layers of Jared’s hair, how sweaty tendrils are tucked behind his ears, while the back cascades in waves, and the graceful tilt to his strong neck. 

Jensen thinks about running his fingers through all that messy hair, reaches for it, then stops just short of touching. That’s when Jared turns back to him and smiles, small and careful, yet there is more emotion in his eyes. 

“They’re not watching,” Jared whispers. “They don’t care.”

“I thought everyone cared about you?”

“That’s true,” he smirks, then shakes his head and licks the corner of his mouth. “They’re probably just happy you’re talking.”

The shine of Jared’s moist lips makes Jensen thirsty, and he can’t stop himself from rising up on his tip toes and drinking. He presses his mouth to Jared’s just long enough to feel the shock of skin on skin, to sense the pause until Jared presses back, opening up around Jensen’s lower lip and sucking slowly before pulling back with his eyes closed.

Jensen watches carefully until he can understand the way Jared seems to drift away, rocking back on his heels. The kiss, though brief, is stunning, crafting a spark that’s left Jensen’s lips tingling. 

“You know …” Jared takes a deep breath and watches Jensen with wide, dark pupils. “My Uncle Jesse used to say …”

“Oh, God,” Jensen whines. “Please don’t.”

“Have mercy.”

Before Jensen can complain further, Jared’s mouth has descended on his own, lips curling perfectly around Jensen’s. Jared pushes in close, forces Jensen against the rusty garage siding, and Jensen forgets about red streaks on his shirt when Jared slides his tongue between Jensen’s lips and presses in. 

Jensen whines again, though this time in pure satisfaction, as the long lines of Jared’s body are tucked in tight to Jensen, trapping him against the garage. Those long fingers dance up the side of Jensen’s neck and settle warmly around the back of his head, while his other hand slips behind Jensen, wrapping his arm around his waist. 

There’s not much to do but hold on as Jensen lets Jared take over, completely and unabashedly, and falls into one of the greatest kisses of his lifetime. Jared is patient and slow, all while intense and focused on longevity as he stretches out each kiss for an eternity. He only pauses long enough to breathe before diving right back in. Jensen isn’t even sure he’s breathing himself, unable to keep up with Jared’s careful yet strong hands holding him close, the slick slide of their tongues dancing together, and the heat spreading between clothes. 

Jensen brings his hands up to Jared’s waist, twists his fingers into the cotton, and tugs. Brings them flush together, so he can feel the bulge in Jared’s pants. 

Maybe they should stop. Or leave. Escape somewhere together so they can take care of one another with more than just their mouths. Jensen suddenly thinks about stripping Jared down to nothing and draping his body across him, feeling the smooth streak of warm skin beneath him as he licks every square inch of this hard body still pressing him up against aged metal siding. They could surely do all this somewhere private. 

He’s going dizzy with the onslaught of emotions, nerves tingling from his fingertips all the way down to his toes. Not to mention the lack of oxygen as his systems shut down, all brain functions fixated on kissing Jared, to never stop kissing Jared. 

_Pop! Pop-pop-pop! Pop-pop! >_ of fireworks breaks the kiss. Jensen stumbles back and away, though Jared’s arms are still tight around him. They stumble together while looking above the crowd where lights sparkle and bright colors spirit up to the sky from Roman Candles planted in the ground. 

The homegrown fireworks show breaks out, and the sky is filled with bursts of red and pink and purple, and voices cry out in excitement. 

“Jared! We got the big one ready!”

Jensen wants to laugh at the absurdity of Lauren’s exclamation. There’s no laughing, though, when Jared backs off from their moment with a lopsided frown. 

“I promised her I’d help out.”

Before he can help it, Jensen groans and frowns, though he’s honored with the pathetic gesture of Jared’s soft smile and wink.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Jared insists. He kisses Jensen’s temple and slips away before Jensen can argue. 

Jensen twists his head around, stretching his neck, and tries to pretend he wasn’t just totally wrapped up in Jared. Like they weren’t just making out like horny teenagers against the garage while the whole town, no matter how small, were just feet away as they continued on with the celebration. 

But no one is looking. Not a soul is paying him any attention, which is enlightening. And yet strange, given how invested these folks have been in his presence. 

“Huh.”

 

*** 

 

An hour later, Jensen is beyond his pleasant buzz. Wafting off into boredom, that unpleasant feeling of uselessness. 

He’s been watching Jared float around the gathering and helping the children with sparklers, light more roman candles than should be possible for a town this size, and fill everyone’s hands with fresh drinks, snacks, and whatever else they’re missing. 

Just as all the times before when Jensen had witnessed Jared interacting with the townies, the man is welcomed with charming smiles and warm salutations. Jensen remains on the outer ring of the event. Can’t even bother to take pictures as he tries to be a part of this moment. That doesn’t feel right, either. He feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb, someone who doesn’t really belong now.

Something itches just beneath his skin. He’s not the type to hang around and wait. He’s always taken action to keep moving. Standing in one place never helped him much. 

With that, he decides to make himself scarce. 

Walking the streets is eerily silent. The shops dotting the main street are dark. Street lamps and the twinkling strands above light the way. He can hear the soft echo of his footsteps on cement. A chill fills the air, and he folds his arms against his chest and walks a little faster. 

It’s colder out here, away from the melee of the festival. The further he gets from the townies.

Away from Jared. 

This is ridiculous. He’s never had this kind of push and pull with anyone before. And this isn’t even the scenario in which he would have expected it. 

He didn’t even want to spend twenty-four hours in this place, and now he’s cursing the fact that he could be leaving in the morning. Heading back home and far away from … whatever this is. 

The Red Sky Inn’s porch light is on, as always. This time like a beacon calling him back, rather than shining too bright on all of Jensen’s misfittings. The oak door creaks when it opens, gathering Mrs. G.’s attention from her rocking chair behind the front counter. 

“Evenin’ Jensen,” she offers as she stands, leaning against the counter to smile at him.

He shuts the door and glances around, half expecting Jared to pop up from out of nowhere. “You’re up late.”

“You never know when a customer comes callin’.”

His watch reads past eleven; he thinks it’s rather late to be serving guests, but stranger things have happened since he found himself here. 

“Is Mr. Jared with you?”

That stops him cold in his tracks. First a flash of dread that she expected them to be together, then a dash of regret that Jensen left the festivities instead of waiting around for him. “No, he’s still working at the fair.”

“That boy,” she smiles fondly. “Such a hard worker, deep heart. And never asks for a dime in return. They don’t make men like that anymore.”

Jensen fights a frown as he considers what’s brought him here in the first place. Fighting to earn some extra cash by wasting a week driving cross country. Surely there are more important things on this planet, in his life, than stretching himself thin to stay on the road. Leading him to bust up the Ford’s innards, lying to Beaver as he prolonged the final delivery, and getting too wrapped up in the workings of this town. 

Too wrapped up in Jared, for sure. 

“No, I guess they don’t,” Jensen admits quietly. He considers asking if she needs anything, maybe she’s been waiting on Jared to return, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. 

He was never that kind of man, anyway. 

“Have a good night, Mrs. G.”

Ellen reaches across the counter to pat his hand, then winks. “Nighty night, Jen.”

Jensen doesn’t bother correcting her, instead taking the stairs two at a time so he can get into bed and wake for the next troublesome day of mishaps and country gossip. 

Sleep escapes him, and the blank white ceiling mocks him. His brain, too, because now he’s reliving that damned kiss on the stark paint like he’s at a movie theater. Jensen pitches himself around to his right so he can stare at the wall instead. 

A terrible painting of orange daisies and rugged green grass stares back, and he sees Jared, again. Pictures him using those giant hands to indelicately hold a paint brush and crudely dash colors all around. Hears Mrs. G gush about the beautiful artwork donated by the town, so many coming from Jared. 

Jensen curses that name. Curses himself. Because if he hadn’t been stuck in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska, held up in this town while waiting on the Ford to be fixed, he wouldn’t be lamenting the pain of one stupid kiss against that terrible garage.

  



	7. Chapter 7

DAY SEVEN

He wakes up immediately feeling guilty for leaving the festival without an excuse. For leaving Jared, really. 

Jensen stays in bed, staring up at the ceiling, as he contemplates his final days in Paradise. What once seemed like a death sentence is now whittling down the final days of a necessary vacation. He doesn’t want it to end. 

The sun beams hot through the window and birds chirp loudly outside. He can hear voices downstairs, but he doesn’t want to move. Getting up and starting the day means he’s that much closer to getting in the F-100 and heading out of town. 

He no longer thinks about it as going home, but leaving the sparkle of Paradise.

Someone knocks at the door, and Jensen sluggishly gets up to open it, now staring at Jared. The guy stands tall, nearly looming in the doorway, yet his shy, impish grin eases much of Jensen’s worries. 

Immediately, Jensen blurts out, “I’m sorry for leaving last night.”

Jared apologizes as well, with a small, playful frown. “I’m sorry I abandoned you for so long. Was gonna make it up to you with some pie at Briana’s.”

“Pie for breakfast?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

“If you have a better idea …”

“Forget I said anything!” Jensen laughs then hurries to shower and get dressed while Jared goes down to talk to Mrs. G.

Another day with Jared could be a great way to avoid thinking about his trip back East. 

 

*** 

 

The day flies by, and Jensen does all he can to hold onto the moments and catalogue them for later. He snaps hundreds of pictures around town of each building and person he sees; takes a few selfies with Briana, Kim, and her boys; and even insists on some with Jared. 

He and Jared share a banana split at Kim’s shop for lunch, get a hefty serving of pie at Briana’s as an afternoon snack, and head back to Mrs. G.’s for dinner. There are steaks and potatoes, and even a whole plate of Mrs. G’s white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies. A full dozen, and Jensen snickers. 

“Hmm?” Jared watches him closely. 

“Oh, nothing … just, remembering Mrs. G was in a fuss over your cookies.”

“Sounds pretty sexy.”

Jensen side eyes him. 

“But also worrying,” Jared amends with fake sincerity. “Do go on.”

“I guess it’s not that important.”

“Sure it is.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. You thought about it and wanted to tell me, so tell me.”

Jensen makes a thoughtful noise and concentrates more on cutting his steak than the way Jared is watching him. There are plenty of thoughts stirring around his head, and he’d rather not spend too much time sorting them all out. He’s not sure he has much patience for such a thing when he’s doing his best to just drift with the flow. 

“I smell smoke,” Jared says in between bites. There is absolutely nothing serious in the way he says it, or in the way he’s minding Jensen. Like he knows more than he’ll let on. Or more than even Jensen will allow. 

There’s nothing amiss with the stove or oven; Jensen can’t smell anything himself and doesn’t see a problem. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Surprising. When the fire’s brewing in that pretty little head of yours.” Jared even points his fork at Jensen, perfectly square piece of medium rare filet pierced at the end of it. “What’re you thinking?”

“Nothing really.”

“You know, _nothing really_ and nothing are not the same thing.”

Jensen sets his fork down on his plate, just before letting his guard down as well. The whole point is to enjoy the moments as they come, not to overthink them. Or worse, keep himself guarded from enjoying them. 

“I didn’t really expect this, ya know?”

“Well, like my Uncle Bobby says, ‘the times they are a-changing’.”

Jensen stares. “Okay … seriously?”

“What?”

“Jared.”

“What?” he repeats. 

The longer Jensen stares, the more amused he is by Jared’s look of complete innocence. “You’re an idiot.”

“Tell me he’s wrong. Try it.”

Doing his best to hide a smile, Jensen rolls his eyes and mumbles, “Shut up.” When he spots Jared’s growing smile, Jensen wants nothing more than to share it with him. In his own way, he does, leaning over to kiss him. Jared moves right into it and nudges his nose right alongside Jensen’s. Tips closer so their foreheads touch, and he can look right into Jensen’s eyes when the kiss drifts off. 

“You really need better lines,” Jensen insists, even as he remains right in Jared’s space. 

Jared hums and smirks. “They seem to be working just fine.”

“One of these days, you’re gonna run out of uncles.”

“But I’ll never run out of energy.”

Jensen’s eyebrows go up, interested. “Is that so?”

Jared leans closer. “You wanna find out?”

Mrs. G. is still in the house, back in the kitchen and out of earshot, of course. But Jensen still wonders what else she could know of what they’re discussing.

“She has terrible hearing,” Jared insists in a low voice. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

It is, but Jensen is still absolutely thrilled by the idea. He weakly points out, “She’ll notice we’re gone.”

“She’ll probably be glad that we are.” After a wink, he adds, “I know I’ll be glad about it.”

Jared takes him up to Jensen’s room. They’re practically running up the stairs, hurrying so Mrs. G doesn’t see them, but she’ll surely hear them. Especially when Jared yanks on Jensen’s hand and pulls quickly so their feet stomp loudly on each step and down the hall.  
They’re giddy and laughing until Jared pushes Jensen against the wall and traps him between it and his body. Long lines, hard muscles. Just like last night before fireworks interrupted them. 

There are fireworks here, too, popping a million sensations across Jensen’s skin. It’s all too much for Jensen to concentrate, worse yet when Jared takes over Jensen’s mouth, lips pressing tight and tongue slipping deep inside. It’s just like at the festival, but, this time, they’re alone, and Jensen can react exactly the way he wants. 

Twenty-four hours is a long time to wait and think, to plan the next time, to figure out where to put his hands, how fast and easy he wants this to be. Fighting Jared in the kiss, even when letting Jared completely manhandle him down the hallway. They stop every few feet, and Jensen lets his arms swing up around Jared’s neck, holds onto his hair and twists, feels a flurry of butterflies in his belly like he’s back in high school and making out with Billy behind the bleachers. 

So cliché, yet so off the map for what was expected in the farm lands of Texas. Jensen had let his libido lead the way, chasing the good feelings and rushing through it so they weren’t caught. He still remembers the rough calluses on Billy’s fingers from hours spent on the guitar every day. 

Jared’s fingers are tough with distinct ridges, but it’s completely different when Jensen pants and moans with every finger print pressed into his back, warm palms sliding along his bare skin. Can think about what to say or do in return rather than bottle up all the worry of teenage Jensen ‘Straight-A’ Ackles. 

He’s since grown from those days. Long forgotten, except when Jensen finds himself trying to dip back into the sensations of warm male bodies, chests broader than his own, arms stronger and yet protective. 

Through his thoughts, he’s slowed down, and Jared pulls back with a small bite at the corner of his own mouth. “Everything okay?”

“It could be better,” he teases, grinning at the confusion, and perhaps disappointment on Jared’s face. He rectifies it by tugging on Jared’s shirt to lead the way to his room. Then he barricades them inside with a twist of the faulty lock before shoving the trunk in front of the door. 

In seconds, they’re on the bed and fighting with clothes. Jensen barely gets Jared’s fly open before his hand is diving in to touch, wrapping his fingers around Jared’s dick and fisting him. He revels in the image of Jared spread out on the bed beneath him with blushing cheeks and kiss-bitten lips. There’s nothing prettier than Jared’s pink tongue reaching for Jensen’s mouth, no better sound than his wrecked breathing.

Jared doesn’t fare much better as he yanks Jensen’s jeans and underwear just under Jensen’s ass and returns the favor of the hand job. It’s messy and quick, yet utterly satisfying as they trade wet kisses, hot air, and uneven rhythms that are less about skills and more about the frenetic energy between them. 

Prickling shocks run across Jensen’s skin, ultra-heightened when Jared’s free hand runs up and down Jensen’s arm. Those long fingers squeeze around Jensen’s bicep as the muscles work hard to get Jared off with quick strokes and a tight fist. 

He thinks about swimming and the cloudiness in the ears as one sinks underwater. When Jared drags kisses out, it’s like the tide licking at the shore. Suddenly, Jensen wants to run away … but not like before. Not out of fright or anxiety. It’s purely for the exhilaration of escaping to a remote beach and letting the ocean slip between his toes, warm water heating his body. Now he pictures the golden sun on Jared’s skin, slick with perspiration, maybe even with Jensen’s mouth as he’d ravish every square inch when they have the patience.

For the interim, Jensen lowers himself to kiss and suck along Jared’s neck, and he swears he can taste the saltiness of the Atlantic. Feel the warmth of the sun’s rays with every touch. 

Jared growls from the back of his throat when Jensen runs his tongue up to the hinge of his jaw, squeezes around Jensen’s cock, and falters there as Jensen finds the bullseye and keeps working his mouth at that spot. Jared is completely undone in a matter of minutes, tugging Jensen in tight as he pumps his hips into the ring of Jensen’s fingers. Moans and puffs empty breaths as he comes, does little to worry about the decibel level when he roars through his orgasm. 

The sounds are far too good to keep Jensen on track. Combined with the blissed look in Jared’s eyes and the lazy drag of his tongue across his bottom lip, Jensen finds himself plunging into the deeper waters of his mind. Breaks soon after Jared, and only wastes a second thinking about the mess of their come on each other’s hands and clothes. 

Jensen is dazed for quite a while as he watches the shadows of the trees outside swaying in the easy breeze. He lays shoulder to shoulder with Jared, wonders briefly about the drying come, but won’t dare move when he has this warmth along his side. 

“I’m usually much better than that,” Jared admits quietly. 

As flat as possible, Jensen replies, “Yeah, you were terrible.”

Honestly,” he argues, “I’m rather proud of my abilities in the bedroom. And if I had ample opportunity—” 

“You think you’re getting a second chance after that?” Jensen bites the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. It’s too easy to rib Jared now. Has been since he allowed himself to let go and accept the circus that is this town. And Jared. “Think again, bud. I’ve got higher standards than that.”

“Well now you’re just arrogant.”

Finally, Jensen lets himself laugh, glad that Jared can, too, when they look at one another. “Maybe next time we try to do it without a doily under your ass.”

Jared reaches above his head and slips his finger into a hole of the weave. “I think my mom made this.”

“God, this is just getting more and more embarrassing.” 

Jared backhands Jensen’s chest. “It’s my family! How do you think I feel?”

“Maybe you like it.” He groans with another hit from Jared, even while continuing to rag on him. “You probably get off on having sex in your grandma’s house.”

“Just for that, I’m not touching you again.”

Jensen snorts, then turns to his side, leans over Jared to kiss him, lavish with the time he takes to explore Jared’s mouth, dance around his tongue with the delicious post-sex haze hanging in the room. “Too late, you’re touching me,” Jensen teases softly before dropping a few quick kisses on Jared’s lips. 

“I am not a willing party.”

“Liar.” Jensen delicately trails a finger up the center of Jared’s chest and rings it around the deep dip of his throat. There’s great joy at the gulp Jared tries to hide, failing spectacularly. And in the way his chest rises with a thick, needy breath. “I can tell you’re totally miserable.”

“I’m already regretting picking you up on the side of the road like some sad prostitute.”

“You were hoping I was one, weren’t you?”

Jared’s grabs at Jensen’s ass and squeezes, fingers pressing into the sensitive dip between his cheeks. “Are you?”

“Oh shut up!” Jensen teases, rolling them over and kissing Jared.

  



	8. Chapter 8

DAY EIGHT

In the morning, Jared is showered and dressed, looking soft and loose in ragged jeans and a well-fitted, white v-neck tee. He’s walking around the room barefoot and Jensen is oddly happy to see the tattered end of his jeans juxtaposed with the tan skin. Strangely transfixed by those long toes and the streaks of tendons and muscles moving with each step. 

Jensen thinks about taking photos, but instead files this moment away as a warm memory for later.

 

*** 

It’s another rushed day that ticks away faster than Jensen wants it to. He enjoys tea time with Mrs. G. Spends some of his lunch at the ice cream shop, listening to Brock and Colin as they talk about their training for the county’s flag football league. Jensen remembers playing that in gym class, and didn’t realize it would be an event outside of school. They are so into it that Jensen enjoys watching them act out stories from past games.

Jensen tells them about a kid in his high school who deliberately tackled a referee during a game, big ol’ Friday night lights type of football, and how the player was suspended from school and the team. The referee's head snapped back when he was leveled, then another player accidentally fell into the melee and piled on, because he was going after the other player. The boys crack up and name a few refs they’d like to get back at for controversial calls. 

Kim appears with her palms ready to smack each kid, eventually just rubbing their heads and calling them _a bunch of numbskulls_ before getting back to her bookkeeping.

Jensen files this conversation away, too, trying not to think about the fact that it could be their last together.

He has dinner back at Mrs. G’s, and Jared joins them. It’s nice and comfortable, and Jensen tries to ignore the warm vibe he gets from having Jared sitting across the table. Also ignores how Mrs. G. smiles brightly at them both as if she knows all. 

They go to Briana’s for dessert, even though they had a little bit of apple crumble at the _Red Sky Inn_. They split a piece of the peanut butter dream and it’s just as amazing as Jensen had fantasized about. 

Later, fantasies become realities with Jared and his hands. This time, those long fingers focused on Jensen’s ass as they open him up slowly. The bedroom is warm with their body heat, then suddenly cooled at times when the breeze drifts in through the window. Jared is slow and methodical, and Jensen directs him through it all, tells him when to go deeper as his body opens for Jared’s fingers slipping deeper, and he whispers affections when Jared gets it right. 

They languidly kiss through it all, Jensen feverish for every touch of skin and lips possible. Jared mumbles against Jensen’s mouth before turning him over on the mattress. He runs his hands over Jensen’s back, down over his ass, and squeezes to expose Jensen. Taking his time, Jared guides his dick into Jensen inch by inch until he’s buried deep and Jensen is trapped beneath him. 

Jensen can feel, smell, and hear Jared all around him, inside him, and it’s completely overwhelming every sense. He shuts his eyes and gently rocks back to start up a rhythm that Jared immediately falls into. 

Jensen comes with Jared fucking him from behind and a firm hand stroking him. Jared isn’t far behind, pulling on Jensen’s hips to finish while sliding in and out at a quickening pace. 

When they settle back on the bed, Jensen is so happy with the moment that he doesn’t even argue when Jared settles alongside him, despite their bodies still being warm and sweaty, muscles all languid and worn out.

Jensen thinks about other times with other guys, and it has never been like this. 

There is a playful giddiness simmering all around them, while soft affection drills itself into the back of his mind.

Jared seems just as happy with the moment, humming in response to random things Jensen tells him about his life back home. 

“You know,” Jensen starts, lowering his voice in the calmness of the room. “If you ever thought about getting away, you’ll have someone to see in New York.”

“That so?” Jared asks, turning his head to look at Jensen. 

“I wouldn’t mind playing tour guide. Returning the favor and all that.”

“That’s not why I did it.”

“I know,” Jensen assures him. He can’t quite get the words out to tell Jared that he just really wants to see him again. That this isn’t really goodbye for them, even when he knows, deep down, that it is.

Jared’s next words are so soft, Jensen doesn’t believe he actually heard them: “You could stay here.”

Jensen holds his breath as he considers that. He knows what it would look like—exactly how he’s spent the last few days, living the easy life where stress comes in the form of what pie to order at Briana’s. It’d look like a thousand more nights like this one, resting beside Jared, fingers twiddling together, 

“Imagine all the people,” Jared murmurs, “living life at ease.”

With a small smile, Jensen asks, “Which uncle was that?”

“John. He was a poet, and a singer.”

Jensen hears the song in his head, fixates on _you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one_. He squeezes Jared’s hand and closes his eyes. “I bet he was a mighty fine one, too.”


	9. Chapter 9

DAY NINE

Jensen tries not to be insulted that Jared is gone. 

He woke to an empty bed and only found Mrs. G. downstairs preparing breakfast. When he asks her about Jared, she insists he had a packed day around town, and that he headed out with an egg and bacon sandwich to get started early. 

She also relays the news that the Ford is ready. 

_This is it_ , he thinks. _This is really the end._

 

*

 

At _Dingy Dick’s_ , Richard says the truck is all set. Even points out the spic-n-span wash and wax he gave it. 

“What do I owe you?” Jensen asks, and Richard immediately shakes him off. “No, seriously, what’s the bill?”

Richard downs a cup of coffee and rubs at the spots where his mustache is all wet. “Jared took care of that.”

“He did,” Jensen says more than asks.

“He’s a good fella, you know?. Always ready to lend a helping hand to those in need.”

In a flash, Jensen feels his skin burn at the memories of the last two nights when Jared surely put his hands to use, helped out Jensen in a big way. 

Richard breaks the silence with a surprisingly concerned, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He holds his head high and faces the mechanic head-on while admitting, “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“Good guy. Really good guy,” Richard reiterates.

Jensen looks away, losing himself in thought. “Can’t argue with that.”

Richard stares for quite a long time, and Jensen lets the room fill with awkward silence while he works on his breathing, steadies his mind, so the next time he talks, he doesn’t sound like he’s about to lose it, all over Jared doing yet another good deed.

“You wanna see the truck?” Richard offers, pointing to the garage.

Jensen moves sluggishly. There are many things he’d rather be doing than getting back in that truck. It’s a strange realization when he thinks about the Ford being the reason he was stuck here in the first place. Now it’s about to take him far away from Paradise. 

He halfway wishes it won’t start. 

 

*** 

 

Jensen makes his last rounds of goodbyes, trying not to acknowledge the tension in his chest when Briana hugs him with tight arms around his neck, or when Kim slaps him on the back and makes him promise to come back and visit sometime.

His last stop is the inn to pay Mrs. G for his stay in her guest room. 

She’s in the kitchen mixing a new batch of brownie batter, floral and frilly apron askew around her neck and streaks of melted chocolate on her cheek. Jensen smiles at the state she’s in and immediately regrets having to tell her he’s leaving. 

“Okay,” she says simply once he gets the words out. 

“Okay?” Jensen parrots back.

Mrs. G shrugs. “People come and go. But the memory remains.”

Keeping his defenses at half mast, Jensen hugs her, holds tight and smells the chocolate on her, commits that to memory. Because she was the very first person here to be honest and helpful, without strings attached. Without any ulterior motives or attitude.

When they break apart, she rubs her palm over his chest. “Your memory will remain.” 

His throat is thick with emotion, and he wonders how this sweet old woman isn’t crying. Beats himself up that he kind of wants to do just that for the both of them. 

“Here, I want you to take this.” He offers the wad of cash in his hand. 

“What for?”

“For my stay.”

“No need for that, darling. It was fun while it lasted.”

He puts the money in her hands, but she pulls them away and lets the bills drop to the floor. “No, really, I insist.” 

“You’ll need that money more than I will once you’re back on the road.”

“I have cards I can use then. Take this.”

She ignores every request to take the money. She says the pleasure was all hers, and he feels a few more tears prickle the corner of one eye. 

“No, really. You fed me and washed clothes and everything. At least let me pay you for the food. For the water in the shower and whatever else I used that you wouldn’t have if I wasn’t here.”

“Oh honey,” she sighs with a pat on his cheek. The term of endearment is rather … endearing. Rather than awkward and sugary. His stomach twists with the thought. “The real gift was in having your company.”

“Please let me pay. I insist.”

“You don’t need to pay.”

“I have to. Please let me.”

“It’s all taken care of.”

He stops now and blinks. Feels a heavy weight hang on his shoulders. “Jared paid you,” realizes. Guilt builds deep in the pit of his stomach, and his walls rise quickly. He hadn’t intended for Jared to pay for anything. He would have rather had a proper goodbye with him. “You can give his money back and take mine.”

Mrs. G. shakes her head while moving to the far end of the counter. She steps back to him carrying a china plate covered in plastic, holding a pile of double chocolate chip cookies in place. “You take this.”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“You can. And you will.”

“You made those for yourself.” Jensen chuckles awkwardly. “Or Jared. It’s probably his payment.”

“I made them for you.”

“Why?”

She purses her lips like any good mother would when facing a petulant child. “Because you said you liked them, and I’m terrible at pie. Surely you can grab one of Briana’s on your way out.”

He bites the inside of his mouth as he considers having to say goodbye to her, too. Surely it won’t be as easy as this … if this is even that easy for him to turn away. 

Even if he wanted to stay, stick around and deal with whatever could happen with Jared day after day, Jensen has to get the truck to Beaver. It’s the whole reason he wound up here. He knows he needs to – wants to – see it through to the end. Owes it to the old man. And deserves the fine wages for surviving this long, burdened by the truck. 

On his way out of the inn, saddled with his backpack, the plate of cookies, and a few Tupperware containers of fresh ham and roast beef sandwiches, Jensen stops at the front counter just long enough to grab a flier for the business. He’ll send Mrs. G. some of Beaver’s paycheck once he’s back on the East Coast. She can’t deny the offer when he’s two time zones away. 

Surely, she can deposit it in one of her fifteen bank accounts.


	10. Chapter 10

DAY TEN  
New York City

Jensen wakes up to the afternoon sun hot on his back and the loud clanking of machinery. When he blinks himself to some form of consciousness, he realizes he’s back in his own bed. Instead of the smell of pancakes and bacon, he dealing with the sour stench of garbage. Right outside his window and a few floors down, a garbage truck bangs the dumpsters together for the Chinese restaurant as they’re emptied. 

He faintly remembers a time when the city was charming. The mess of traffic horns and screeching brakes mixing with people’s loud voices as they traipse up and down the neighborhood. People always on the go, the energy of living your life out loud. Even the salty, foul smell of the Chinese restaurant would make him crave Crab Rangoon and orange chicken. He used to thank the stars he had so many food options close to his doorstep. And as much as he appreciates the firmness of his own mattress and the softness of his comforter, there’s a deep longing for the firm, unforgiving bed back at the _Red Sky Inn_. 

Once he’s up and making coffee, there’s the draw of the daily crosswords he raced Briana to finish, or the bottomless cups of coffee she never charged him for. Hell, he even misses that damn squirrel that followed him everywhere. It kept him company before he found comfort in Paradise.

In front of the bathroom mirror, a tiny thing with rust spots all along the sides, he wonders about shaving. After a week of forgoing the blade, there is an impressive layer of scruff covering up the bottom half of his face. Maybe it’s a battle scar to wear for now. A way to avoid looking himself clear in the face and thinking about what transpired over the last nine days, and why he still cares. 

For fifteen years, bottling up his emotions has been an easy task. Suddenly, it feels like too much effort. So does a shower. 

It takes another cup of coffee for Jensen to do more than drag his feet along the weathered floorboards of his tiny studio apartment. A little more effort, and Jensen can drive the damned Ford upstate and get paid for his long travels. 

There wasn’t much time for sleep in the last twenty-four hours, driving straight through the night from Paradise, fueled by energy drinks, beef jerky, and Mrs. G’s offerings. 

It’s a bit disorienting that his phone is fully functional again, uninterrupted Wi-Fi everywhere he goes. Yet, it remains silent. He has no reason to believe anyone back in Paradise would bother contacting him, let alone figure out how.

Still, he allows himself the cold realization of wishing someone would. If only to remind him that it wasn’t all a dream. 

 

***

 

Beaver is happy to see the truck, and gives her praises far beyond any bit of emotion he grants Jensen. He has all sorts of questions about what took him so long and is suspicious as to why she looks so clean, inside and out. 

The old man sighs. “I guess I can’t complain when she’s here all in one piece.”

Jensen nods in agreement, otherwise staying silent. 

“You have a good time drivin’ her?” Beaver asks. “Fun trip?”

He can’t touch on what happened in Paradise, can’t let on that there was any hiccup with the truck. He considers talking about it using vague concepts, about places he could have stayed in between legs of driving. Decides it’s best to keep quiet and avoid the buried feelings while he has other things to focus on. 

Beaver runs a palm over the front quarter panel like touching a lover. “You know, when I met my wife, she was driving this car.”

“This exact car?” Jensen suddenly fears if the sentimental value has been lost with the rehabilitated fuel pump. 

“No, you idjit.”

There’s a pain in his chest as Jensen thinks about Kim and her colorful insults.

“We crashed that thing right after I asked her to marry me … funny story, really. I asked. She screamed. Then I ran us right off the road.”

Jensen attempts to smile at the image, yet is struck with guilt as he thinks about how this truck stuttered off onto the shoulder back in Nebraska. 

“I always said I’d get that truck back for her. It was her first love after all.”

“Kinda puts a damper on the marriage,” Jensen jokes before he can stop himself. 

Instead of complaining, Beaver rubs his salt-and-cinnamon beard and nods. “It could. It really could. But I learned long ago that there are all sorts of loves in our lives. Just gotta find the right one to ride shotgun as you drive off into the sunset.”

It’s like a punch to the gut, as images of Jensen sitting beside Jared in the tow truck whip by him. It strikes him so deep, it rattles him down to his core and stays with him for the rest of the day. 

Back at his apartment, he sifts through the thousands of photos he took in Paradise and begins the crusade to piece his last week together. He knows it’s one hell of a story.


	11. Chapter 11

EPILOGUE  
DAY THIRTY-TWO

Over the last month, Jensen threw himself into work. There were long days at the studio to prepare for the Summer show, dozens of pieces to arrange with Samantha, and programs to finalize. 

Jensen shows Samantha a collection of his photos from Paradise, presenting more every few days. He knows he’s getting under her skin, for both the good and the bad. 

In the final days counting down to the show’s opening, she relents and offers him a small space for select items to add to the show. 

This is the first time his photos are in a professional setting, and he’s far too excited to let it rain on his parade that he’s stuck in the back corner of the exhibition, right next to the bathrooms. 

The show has a two-week run with strong publicity in the area. Plenty of items are sold, and critics publish positive reviews of the entire collection. As promised, Sheppard draws a crowd for his collection featuring urban decay beautified with bright graffiti murals along with rain garden and other green infrastructure. 

Jeff is pleased every time he walks into the place, enough so that he happily thumps Jensen on the back with more ‘atta-boys’ than Jensen’s received in the last five years, combined. 

All in all, things are looking bright for Jensen. Even if he’s isolated from the rest of the show, away from the energy of the art and the patrons. 

People travel back his way throughout the show, but they always take a quick turn to the washrooms. Each time, Jensen comes to attention, standing tall with his hands tucked behind his back and a smile in place, before the guests barely acknowledge him and continue on their way. 

A woman in a sleek, black pantsuit with large diamonds around her neck and wrist comes out of the bathroom and walks right to him. Jensen grins, preparing to talk to her about his photos, yet stops short when she opens her mouth.

“The ladies’ room is out of toilet paper.”

He purses his lips, then nods curtly before falling into the service role he’s perfected over the years of working these shows. “Yes, of course, I’ll make sure that’s taken care of.”

She thanks him without a glance behind him, where his pieces illustrate a slice of Paradise. Richard working under the Ford F-100 that brought Jensen there and then carried him away. Mrs. G. plucking stray weeds from among the roses in her garden. The _Dandelion Dance_ , as well as folks seated at the counter of Briana’s diner. Just a short medley of his time there, and Jensen has no one with whom to share his experience. 

A toilet flushes in the men’s room, and he’s brought back to the present. The next ten minutes are spent freshening up each of the bathrooms with extra rolls of toilet paper and a new stack of hand towels, and emptying garbage cans. When he returns to his tiny corner, someone is standing in front of the photos. 

The silhouette is instantly recognizable. 

“Jared,” Jensen whispers, unable to move from his spot ten feet away. 

Gone are the raggedy jeans and faded t-shirts; Jared’s in tailored, slate dress pants and a blue, v-neck sweater. His hair is soft and tame, tucked back behind his ears, and his jawline is prominently sharp and clean, not a trace of facial hair. 

The photo right in front of Jared is of the man himself, reflective aviators hiding his eyes, with a wide expanse of fields and blue skies behind him. Jensen had taken it that first time they drove around together, when they stopped in the middle of nowhere so Jensen could capture the landscape. Jensen took this picture, and ten others just like it, of Jared, easy and free against those beautiful Nebraskan lands. 

Jensen inches closer and stops just beside Jared. Then he waits for Jared to talk. Or to find the courage to open his own mouth. 

Jared remains stoic and silent as he takes in Jensen’s photography. 

After long, drawn out minutes, Jared says, “I’ll take one of everything.” He finally shifts towards Jensen and softly smiles. “My regards to the storyteller. He has an amazing eye.”

Jensen bites his lower lip, then licks over the spot. “He’ll be happy to hear you’re such a fan.”

Jared keeps up the pretense, lifting his chin as he says, “I don’t often venture this far east—”

“Or ever,” Jensen slips in with a smile.

“But I heard about this collection. _Everyday in Paradise_.”

There are hundreds of words spiraling around Jensen’s brain. He’s too shocked and excited and proud to put the right ones together. 

“And I had to come see it for myself,” Jared finishes. 

“I’m glad you did,” he manages to say. Suddenly, he blurts, “I miss … ” After a few starts and stops, Jensen adds, “It. I miss it.”

Jared becomes surprisingly serious when he widens his eyes, holding Jensen’s gaze. “It’s missed you.”

“I guess we’ll have to do something about that.” 

This time, it’s satisfying to say _we_. When Jared reaches for his hand, he knows that Jared is, too.

 

*** 

 

It’s a long flight back to Nebraska, but it coasts by quickly with Jared seated beside him. They keep each other company during both the long mindless conversations and the comfortable silences. Plus Jared sprung for first class, a nice treat Jensen’s never experienced before.

When they land at Lincoln Airport, it’s a short walk through the concourse and out to the parking lot where Jared’s tow truck awaits. They have another few hours until they reach Paradise, and Jensen rather enjoys the ride with the windows down and the sun ahead of them as they head west. Everything feels and smells fresh out here.

Jensen turns to Jared, watching the man drive with a small smile on his lips, tiny dimples in his cheek. “So what’ve I missed since I’ve been gone?” 

“Not much,” Jared shrugs in return. “Brock and Colin won their first football game of the season.”

“Oh yeah? What was the score?”

“Twenty-one to seven. Colin scored two touchdowns.”

Jensen grins. “That’s awesome. I bet he’s fast on the field.”

Jared nods with a quick glance to Jensen. “He is. Fastest I’ve seen in a long while.”

“Kim must be proud.”

“She was … for about a minute. Then she dragged the boys back to the shop to open it for the _Jumpin’ Jamboree_.”

They both laugh, and Jensen feels something warm in his chest. It grows warmer the longer they drive, the closer they get to Paradise. 

Watching the fields change around them from green grass to yellowing straw, Jensen thinks about all the steel and cement he’s been staring at for the last month. How it seemed to dull his senses and force him back into a solitary life of hurrying from place to place. For all the people he passed on the streets of New York City every day, he never connected with any of them. Certainly not like any of the folks in Paradise, with their daily celebrations for life’s little joys.

That’s when he sees it: faded tire tracks shifting onto the shoulder. He smiles and taps Jared’s arm before pointing out the window. “That’s it. Slow down.”

Jared decelerates to an easy crawl. “What is?”

“Right here,” Jensen says with emotion bubbling in his throat. “This is the spot.”

They share a long look, and Jensen’s lips turn up in a brilliant grin. “This is where you found me.”

“I’d say you found yourself,” Jared offers, tilting his head towards Jensen.

Jensen recognizes he doesn’t have much in the way of a filter in this moment. “Or we found each other …”

Jared blinks, then holds eye contact for an unthinkable amount of time. Finally, he says, “My uncle once heard a wise man say, ‘only fools rush in …’”

Jensen shakes his head with a grumbling, “Shut up,” and tugs Jared in for a kiss. 

He has a feeling he’ll be hearing about Jared’s _uncles_ for a long time. And he’ll love every moment of it.


End file.
